


Father Knows Best

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergent from Season 8, Castiel Whump, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2016, Hurt Castiel, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Kidnapping, Worried Dean, but he means well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 81,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: When John wakes up alone in a field after spending years in Hell, he thinks he's been given a second a chance. A chance to do right by his boys for once. A chance to protect them like he should have. So protect them he will--even from the horrific creature that's weaseled its way into their lives that calls itself an angel of the Lord.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first time ever doing the Dean Cas Big Bang Challenge and I loved it so much! It's been so amazing getting to challenge myself, and to see everyone else's amazing work.
> 
> My artist is the amazing [kuwlshadow](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com/) ! Her artwork is wonderful and exactly what I imagined. I got to work with her twice this summer, so to see more of her work, check out my story "Itch" for the SPN Horror Bang. 
> 
> Also, I have to thank my amazing beta reader [kay-marie19](http://kay-marie19.tumblr.com/) ! She was so patient and kind and funny--Kay, your comments still make me laugh when I think about them :)
> 
> Now, onto the story! Enjoy and please comment on what you enjoy!

 

The hellhound was by his bed. John could smell the sulfur wafting off it, could hear the quiet, guttural  growling. John cracked open one eye. The hellhound barred its teeth. Pink saliva drooled over its lips, cascading into a puddle on the tile. John looked up to the clock over the door. Just under two minutes left, then. The hellhound’s eyes were blood red and sunken deep into its skull. Its dark fur, thick as steel, was standing needle straight.

                John exhaled in a growl of his own. He had made peace with his death. He told Dean everything he knew about Yellow Eyes, but gave him the cliff notes on Sam’s involvement in it. Dean didn’t need to know those details. They would be irrelevant if Dean could just do what John told him: save Sam or kill him; kill Yellow Eyes or kill Sam.

                Dean hadn’t liked that. He’d been pissed like John had never seen him before. Dean had demanded an explanation, but John didn’t have one. He only knew that Yellow Eyes wanted Sam for some reason—something that had to do with Sam’s sudden physic powers, Mary’s death—and that dying would be more preferable to anything the demon bastard had planned anyway, regardless of the danger Sam now posed to the kinds of people they spent their life saving.

                Dean was pissed and Sam thought he didn’t care. Sam had told him to go to hell.

                The hellhound breathed on him. It was hot and sticky and it made John’s stomach twist. Bile rose up in his throat, and he forced himself to swallow it down.

                He was going to die alone.

                One minute.

                He had failed Mary. He had failed his children. His life’s work was destroyed, all for nothing, because Azazel, the monster he’d spent the last twenty years tracking down, offered him a deal he couldn’t refuse: his life for Dean’s.

                Dean was young, a good hunter, and Sam’s older brother. If there was anyone who would do anything for Sam, it was Dean. Dean didn’t deserve to die.

                John, though…

                He closed his eyes.

                Thirty seconds.

                No…

                No.

                If he was going to die, even in a hospital, with tubes in his arms and down his nose and up his urethra, wearing a flimsy dress that showed his bare ass, he was going to die as a hunter. He was going to die facing his enemy head on.

                John opened his eyes. The hellhound leered over, tongue hanging lazily out of its mouth. It put its tongue against John’s cheek. It felt like fiery sandpaper. It dragged it across John’s face, over his cheek towards the bridge of his nose, scratching every millimeter, sending pinpricks of fire across his skin.

                Ten seconds…

                In his last moments, John wished many, conflicting things. He wished he could have avenged Mary. He wished he had never discovered this secret world of monsters and demons and could have just lived a normal life as a widower and be left to rot in ignorance. He wished he had been a better father to his two sons. He should have protected them. He should have taken care of them. Instead, he left it to Dean to take care of himself and his baby brother, when the boy was still just a baby himself, while he was out either drunk or hunting because he put the needs of others before his own children.

                It had to be done. His boys were strong. Stronger than most, and that’s why it fell to them to be protectors, why John had to leave his boys alone in skeevy motel rooms for days at a time; because his boys would be okay. The people out in the world, people that didn’t know about the supernatural creatures that lurked in the night wouldn’t. John had to do what he did. That didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

                His boys deserved better than him. Even if he hadn’t sold his soul, he still deserved to go to Hell, for the things he did to his boys, for getting Mister Harvelle killed, leaving Ellen widowed and his kid without a father, for abusing Bobby Singer’s kindness and leaving him as John’s go to stop for free babysitting.

                In his last seconds, facing his death, he acknowledged his mistakes and accepted the punishment that came with them.

                He was going to die, but Dean was going to live and Dean and Sam could finish the work he started: they could defeat Yellow Eyes and avenge their mother; keep the family business going.

                Three seconds…

                The hellhound growled. John felt its teeth scrap against his skin and test its grip, pinching.

                Two seconds…

                The heart monitor beside his bed began to beep incessantly. John’s chest ached and he couldn’t scream, the pain paralyzing him. The world in front of him grew blurry. Shapes disappeared entirely and he was left only with muted colors.

                One second.

                “Come on already, you son of a bitch,” John said.

                The hellhound made the first bite and John screamed

* * *

 

                Hell was not fire and brimstone, half goat hybrids with pitchforks. It was dark, and deep, and never ending, like sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Satan did not push you off a cliff into a pool of fire. Rather, demons strung you up like pieces of meat onto metal racks and they cut off body parts and cut in holes; they stuck their fingers into those holes and pulled out nerve endings, muscle, organs, stuffed you full of spiders and sulfur and sewed you back up and then with a snap of their fingers, you would be whole again and for a brief instance the pain would be gone and you could sigh with relief.

                Alastair swirled his knife through his fingers and hummed. “What’ll it be, Johnnie boy?” he asked. He bent down and placed the hilt of the blade in John’s fingers, wrapped them around it. The blade was sticky with his hot blood and heavy. “All you gotta do is trade me places, huh? I’ll let you off if you play teacher.”

                “Go fuck yourself,” John said in between heavy breaths. He was not a demon. He was better than these black eyed sons of bitches. He knew what would happen if he picked up that blade; the pain might end, but he would lose his humanity in the process. The pain was his last reminder that he was not demonic, he was human, just like everyone else strung up screaming. His suffering kept him human.

                The worst part was discovering that demons had been human once. His mind flashed back to every black eyed bitch he had ever exorcised. The smoke that raced out of the mouth and nose of the poor possessed bastard was the twisted remnants of a tortured, human soul. Someone who had once been in a similar position John had been; desperate, helpless, willingly to do anything to make things right, even sell his soul.

                A weak, human soul. A soul that hadn’t been able to resist and say no.

                John didn’t want to become smoke.

                Alastair asked him every day. He twisted the blade in John’s stomach, screw driving it in and whispering in his ear, “Do you want to get off, Johnnie? Do you want to hold the blade?”

                Everyday John would tell him one of the many variants of no he picked up. He’d been a Marine once, he had a very colorful vocabulary. John lost track of time. Days bleed into each other, until there was no cohesion, just pain and short bursts of peace. Sometimes he forgot that there was a time where he was alive, that he wasn’t always tied to this metal rack. There was a time when he was alive, and on Earth. A time when there had been more than this constant darkness and pain. He had a family. He was a father.

                He couldn’t remember what his sons looked like and he cried.

                “All you have to do,” Alastair said, wiping the tears away with his thumb, dancing his fingertips across John’s eyelids, “is say yes.”

                Between his choked sobs, John spat out, “Take that yes and ram it up your ass.”

                It went on.

                He forgot his name.

                Alastair asked again. “I’ll tell you if you say yes. Don’t you want to remember?”

                He was resolute, though. The pain got worse, but he didn’t break. Alastair dug hooks into his shoulders and the meat of thighs, inches away from his genitals and he lit them on fire, but John never broke.

                It was almost anticlimactic. After so much time that he forgot his name and the faces of his sons and the smell of his wife, a light broke through the blackness. Alastair looked up and hissed before smoking away.

                John remembered. He reached, and then he was free.

\--

                _A woman in a dark suit with a clean bun and a mean expression walked towards him._

_“Do we have a deal?” she asked, her voice every bit as stern as her face._

_“Deal,” he said, clasping her hand in his own._


	2. John

CH 1

           The first thing he was aware of was the hard, cold ground beneath him. He relished it, ground; after being vertical for so long, it was a relief, as was the cold. He sighed in contentment and dug his nails into the earth. It was a strange comfort.

                John opened his eyes and sat up. His muscles were stiff and his back popped. He examined his fingers, nails now caked with dirt. The lines on his hands hadn’t changed, or aged since he last remembered. He ran his hand through his hair. It felt the same. Same length, same thickness, though it was greasy and unkempt. Running his hands down his face, he felt the familiar divots of wrinkles and crows feet. A quick run with his tongue confirmed that he had all his teeth. He was wearing clothes. They felt strange on his skin; itchy and heavy, but warm, and after being naked for so long, they too were an odd comfort. He wished he could make them tighter. They made him feel human.

                John remembered everything his body and mind had endured and yet there was nothing on his body to prove otherwise. He pushed on his legs and slowly rose to his feet. He wobbled a little, but it was from stiffness, not pain. His muscles tingled from disuse and when coherent thought finally reached up to John, he clenched his fists.

                What happened?

                Maybe this was a new torture. John wouldn’t doubt it. Surely Alastair had grown tired of his old tricks and needed to step up his game. But it felt so real. And that light? What had that been? John had touched it, and it had been warm and bright. His entire self had been filled with a peace he had never known before

                And…he thought he had a dream. Dean had been there. Sam too. There was…a cemetery? And Yellow Eyes. He remembered seeing the vessel Yellow Eyes used on the ground, clearly dead, but smoking. He had looked to the sky and swore he had flown to the clouds.

                And now he was here, on the ground. Alive, apparently, unless this _was_ just another trick of Alastair’s.

                How much time had passed since he died? And where were his boys?

                He tried to take a step forward and failed, falling forward. He groaned and crawled towards the nearest tree. He used it to brace himself up and reached above him for the closest branch. It was the right median of thickness, and he was able to snap it off after pulling on it for several seconds, but still strong that he could brace his weight on it.

                He felt exhausted. A bone deep exhaustion that went straight to the marrow; the exhaustion that made every movement ache, that plagued the mind into wanting to move to nothingness.

                But he had places to go. He used the branch as a crutch, and he began to walk. The difficulty in walking lessened the more he trudged on. The stiffness in his muscles was from disuse, not pain and  blood began to rush back to his legs. Somehow, he still remembered basic navigation. He was lucky it was a clear night. The north star shone brightly in the sky above him and John followed it. Grass crunched underneath his boots, and he winched. It reminded him of snapping bones. He looked to the stars, but he couldn’t orient himself. Once he knew the names of stars and could pick them out amongst the skyscape, used it multiple times to decipher the time of year and basic location. He looked to the sky now and did not recognize any of the stars.

                It brought  a bitterness in his stomach. How much time had passed?

                He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A still figure, looking at him. He couldn’t make out any features, couldn’t tell if it was male or female. The moment he turned his head to get a better look, the figure was gone, and all John saw was a bright flash of white for a bare second.

                John swallowed. His mind was just playing tricks on him. Maybe his eyes were still adjusting to the change in scenery.   

                He kept walking. He didn’t know for how long, didn’t know how far, but eventually he toed black asphalt and the tightness that had balled up in his chest let go. It was sign of humanity, this road, that the world was still turning, people were still breathing. He waited, holding his breath, and in under a minute, he was blinded by the oncoming headlights. He clamped his eyes shut, seeing shapes and colors dance in the darkness. He waved one hand frantically, still leaning against his makeshift crutch as he slowly opened his eyes. For a moment, it looked like the car wasn’t going to stop. It wasn’t slowing down as the lights came closer and closer, but then at the last second, the brakes are slammed and the car came to a screeching halt right beside him, leaving fresh skid marks on the road. John waited.

                The passenger side window rolled down. A young woman leaned over. “Are you okay, mister?”

                The male driver looked worried, engine still running. He was obviously prepared to drive off as soon as possible.

                “Help me,” John said, before he couldn’t hold his own weight anymore and dropped to the ground.

\--

                More hospitals, more tubes and monitors, and annoying nurses asking the same damn annoying questions but as much as John hated hospitals, he knew he would be safe. Safer, at least, than if he had stayed outside. The doctors were going to keep him for one night, but besides some dehydration and exhaustion, there was nothing wrong with him, they said. He was already beginning to feel better with the fluids in his blood and the bed he was on. Even though it was a hospital bed, it was much softer than the hard ground he’d woken up on.

                John stared at the television. He swallowed and his body felt hot. It was 2012. Seven years. He’d been in Hell for so long he forgot his name, forgot he hadn’t always been there, but it had only been seven years. It seemed like an eternity and a single second all at once. He’d been dead for so long, but then he hadn’t been dead that long at all. So much was different. The news anchor droned on about the president John didn’t know, argued over Islamic terrorism, global warming, Jennifer Lawrence, but it had been seven years and he was alive again.

                He tried calling Dean once. It was so strange. In Hell, he had forgotten his own name, but after being alive and relatively well for a few hours, the oddest of memories were slowly returning. Like phone numbers. John got an automated message that the phone number had been disconnected. Which shouldn’t have been that surprising, John realized. It had been seven years, and he made Dean get into the habit of dumping and switching burner phones every few months.

                Phones were so different. He saw the nurse using one and was intrigued by the design. It didn’t flip open, was just a single screen with only one button on the very front. He didn’t understand how it worked. How did you dial with only one button?

                He leaned back into the pillow. He wasn’t against advancing technology. Actually, people in the hunting community tended to assimilate to newer technology faster than regular people. New technology was always coming out that helped hunters. But that was different because John got to learn the technology as it came out. He was learning with everyone else.

                He was seven years behind and he would have to learn quick if he wanted to assimilate back into society and find Dean. The world had changed so much in the time he was dead. The nurse didn’t take his temperature under his tongue, but rubbed this fancy new thermometer over his forehead and had the result instantly.

                There was a knock on his door. “Mister Wilson?” the nurse asks, strutting in. Her high heels clack on the tiled floor. John nodded in acknowledgement. He didn’t know what Dean did with all his fake insurance information—if he even ever had John Wilson declared dead. Probably not, but John still worried about what would happen if his papers got flagged. Police would get involved.

                “How are you feeling?” she asked, and John sighed in relief.

                “Better,” he said.

                “That’s good,” she fiddled with the IV bag above his head. “Can I get you anything?”

                “No, thank you,” he said.

                She smiled and walked off.

                Sleep didn’t come easy  to John that night.

                Seven years. Goddamn.

\--

                It wasn’t until he was discharged the next morning that John realized his boys might not even be alive. Dean maybe, but Sam? He had no idea. He specifically told Dean he had to kill Sam if he couldn’t save him and seven years was such a long time.

                Then he began to think if his boys (were they indeed still alive) would even want to see him. He knew he wasn’t the greatest of fathers, but he had to be the way he was. The world they lived in didn’t allow for childhood and coddling; monsters didn’t have mercy on children, and neither did hunters. Being a child was not an excuse to be ignorant. That was the culture John discovered. It was the culture he had to raise his children in if they wanted to have any hope for survival. They didn’t understand that, though. John knew. Children rarely understood the struggles and sacrifices their parents put forth for their children.

                John thought of all the birthdays and Christmases he missed, because he was out on a hunt and had left Sam and Dean behind. Sometimes he would just be gone for weeks at a time, no phone calls, no acknowledgment, leaving barely enough money behind.

                Was he a present father? No. But  everything he did, he did with the intent to make the world a better place for his children; he did to prepare them for the world they had no choice but to inherit.

                And then he told Dean he might have to kill Sam, and Sam told him to go to hell. He would have to face them after that, face that aftermath and face his mistakes as both a parent and a hunter.

                And that was only if his boys were still alive after seven years.

                He hotwired a modest car from the hospital parking lot and thought about what he was going to do. He had no money, no way to contact any of his old connections. Just a beat up four door, the clothes on his back and the day’s newspaper.

                It still haunted him, the date lingering in the corner, like a ghost; a death sentence. How could it only have been seven years?

                He hadn’t slept at all during the night. Every time he closed his eyes, he forget where he was momentarily. The darkness—however brief—was all consuming and he swore he was in Hell again, that all this had only been another bout of torture Alastair had devised for him, and it would only be soon enough that the pain would ignite once more.

                But it never did.

                Even if this was all just an elaborate dream with Alastair at the end, leering over him with his favorite blade, John had no choice but to follow under the assumption that all this was real. Just in case, however slim the chance, all this was real.

                He stopped at a coffee shop over an hour away from the hospital. The waitress was a nice woman and gave him a free cup of steaming coffee. John didn’t know how he looked, but it must have been bad it people were mistaking him for a homeless man. He was thankful. It felt strange on his tongue and down his throat, and the warmth that filled his stomach and bones was foreign, one he would have to get used to again. It wasn’t like he heat of his Hell. That was heavy and overwhelming, suffocating. This was nice. It was light and soft. He savored it and thumbed through the newspaper. After driving around for a while, he discovered he was in Ohio, just outside Cleveland. He had no idea why he would show up in Ohio of all places. He had no idea he was suddenly alive to begin with. He thought for a brief moment that maybe one of his boys had made a deal. That was the most reasonable explanation, but John couldn’t force himself to believe it. Surely neither one of his boys was that much of a dumbass that they would sell their souls.

                But if it wasn’t a demon deal, then what was it? John had no clue, and was torn between wanting to know as soon as possible and not wanting to know at all. Maybe it wasn’t a deal, but demons still had to be involved somehow. Them or witches, but they usually worked with demons anyway. Demons or witches were the only supernatural creatures powerful enough to resurrect the dead. It was dark magic. Dirty. Soul tainting.

                He didn’t want to think about.

                He didn’t understand much of what the newspaper read. The names were unfamiliar. But he wasn’t looking for politics, or comics.

                He found it on the second to last page.

                _Missing girls found dead, murderers still at large._

                It sounded like a typical demon hunt. Virgin sacrifice, to say the least. Good god, the girls had only been twelve each. John’s stomach felt acidic.

                This was why he did what he did. To protect those kinds of people. Innocent, clueless; normal, regular people. Good people. He did it to protect his own sons from meeting similar fates, to protect the people they used to be. Sam and Dean used to be like those girls in the paper, innocent and hopeful. They hadn’t been the last time John had seen them, but that was after years of living in the real world where monsters did exist and where anyone could be a monster disguised as a human.

                The death site of the girls was only thirty miles away from where he was.

                The waitress came back to refill his coffee. She glanced over at his paper.

                “Terrible, isn’t it?” she said.

                “Yes, it is,” John said.

                “I just don’t understand how anyone can just kill two little girls like that. It’s terrible! What kind of perverted person just kidnaps and kills two little girls?”

                “A monster,” John said.

                “The police are thinking the murderers are some kind of Satanists.”

                “Really?” John didn’t read anything in the paper about that. It was only a small blurb saying that the bodies were found.

                “Pentagrams drawn in blood were everywhere, apparently. And some kind of weird symbols on the walls. I’m not a religious person myself, but who in their right mind would want to risk their souls like that, talking to demons?”

                “Well,” John said, “monsters rarely think ahead.”

                Another patron called the waitress over and John was alone. If what she said was true, then that confirmed demons. He realized he didn’t have any of his usual tools for hunting, but a good exorcism always worked well enough. Hopefully he wasn’t the only hunter in town. If someone else picked up on this hunt, maybe they could tell him about Sam and Dean.

                Years of being in the Marines and hunting had attuned John’s instincts. He thought someone was watching him. He turned around and thought he caught a glimpse of blue, but then it was gone, and all the booths behind John were empty. He swallowed and stared for a moment, just to make sure it stayed empty.

                John folded the newspaper up into his jacket and finished the last of his coffee.

He left, a little less hopeless than he had been when he arrived. He had a mission now and that cleared his head. It would take him a while to restock on all the supplies he would need for future hunts—salt, iron, silver, not to mention guns and knives, and getting a new credit card, but he had a mission now, a car, and all the knowledge he needed about the supernatural that he felt confident to take down a demon or two.

                He remembered Alastair’s hot breath on his neck and it invigorated him with all the motivation he would ever need.

                Starting up the car again made him miss the Impala, but he knew she was in good hands with Dean. Dean treated that car like his own flesh and blood. It would be nice to see it again after all this time. It was a member of their family, the only constant in their nomadic lives. Buying the Impala over the other VW Van he’d been looking at had been a spur of the moment decision. Come to think of it, he couldn’t actually remember what made him chose the Impala over the other car, but he was glad he made the choice. The Impala was a good car, and she saw the Winchester men through a lot of hard times, and suffered much abuse, from having Legos and army men crammed down her vents, to that one time Dean nicked John’s pocket knife and carved his and Sam’s initials into the interior. All the blood that had been spilled in the backseats, monster and Winchester alike, had been baptismal. John’s heart called the Impala home too, and he yearned to find his boys and take the car out for a drive.

                But for now, the stolen car would have to do. This car wasn’t as loved as the Impala—it was too clean, too meticulous. No personality. But it was a car, and it did what cars were designed to do, though it did take John a long time to get used to the design. He wasn’t that familiar with the cars of 2005, but these ones seemed like something out of a science fiction movie. And even though he’d hotwired it, he noticed that the ignition start was a button.

                “Now that’s a damn shame,” John said. The dashboard was filled with flashing dials and buttons, when he put the car in reverse a little TV appeared showing what was behind him. It was uncomfortable. So much had changed in the time he’d been gone. He would need Sam and Dean to show him the world. It wasn’t like the world he left behind at all.

                He didn’t have any of his cassette tapes, and had to suffer through the radio.

                “They call this music?” John said, biting his lip. He wasn’t sure what a Lady Gaga was, but it sure as hell wasn’t no ACDC or Lynrd Skynyrd. The youth of today would have to suffer and call this music, when they wouldn’t know good music if it bit them in the ass.

                The drive cleared his mind.

                It was so strange to John, how the world hadn’t seem to have changed at all when he drove. It was the same highway, the same road signs. The same trees and sky and nostalgia, the same drunkenness that came with, blocking out all external stimuli and just focusing on the black asphalt ahead that stretched forever. 

                But thirty miles was not a road trip, and John drove into the town from the newspaper. He slowed down as he passed through, growing ill at all the signs he passed posted of the girls. Some of them were still leftover missing posters, but there were a couple of memorials, complete with photos, flower crosses, and bouquets, signs of Rest In Peace and May the Angels Carry You Home.

                Right, John snorted. Angels. Mary had believed them with all her heart, and John never said anything because it wasn’t his place, and if it made her happy, well, who was he to say anything? He didn’t like it when she started telling Dean stories, and been downright pissed when she bought Dean that little angel figurine, but again, he didn’t say anything. Dean loved hearing his Mama’s stories, and he loved that little angel trinket too, and John loved his family and he didn’t want to upset them.

                He’d been ignorant back then, though. If he knew then what he knew now, he wouldn’t have allowed it. Demons were real. Hell was real. But angels? Heaven? Fairy tales. There was no God, no other worldly force. The only good in the world came from humanity. The work John did was good work. The work his boys did was good work.

                He drove until he came to a small park. Pink and white balloons were tied to the trees and a decent gathering of people were centered around a park table. John parked the card and lingered in the back of the procession. The man in the center was wearing a clerical collar and holding a Bible close to his chest.

                “Oh, Lord,” the priest said, lamenting towards the sky, “we pray that you carry the souls of Jen and Tamara into your Kingdom, that you send Your angels to watch over and bring peace to their families. We pray that You bless our law enforcement to find their killers and bring them to justice. We pray that You use Your all encompassing love and compassion and show them Your ways so that they may find redemption. In Your name we pray, amen.”

                “Amen,” the group chorused.

                John couldn’t help himself. It hurt too much to watch these people agonize and torture themselves, watch them profess a love and devotion to something that didn’t exist. These people were missing the point. Two little girls were dead. Their killers were still at large, and these people were more focused on a man in the sky than avenging two little girls.

                “If God cares so much,” John said, “why’d he let those two girls die in the first place?”

                The crowed silenced and whipped their heads. The priest stared at him for a moment before stepping forward.

                “The Lord does not let anything happen,” he said. “To do so would be to take away our free will, the one gift He bestowed to us upon our creation.”

                “Then why any of this?” John shrugged. “We make our own decisions, right? So what does God have to do with anything?” He couldn’t keep the spite out of his voice; it was venomous and clawed its way out his throat and past his lips.

                “God has to do with everything. Look around you, sir; the grass you stand on, the sky above you, it is all His creation. So are you and I; each and every one of us.”

                “I’m still not buying it,” John snapped. The priest looked to the group of people and stepped through, passing them. The crowed tapered off and went deeper into the park, carrying balloons and bird seed.

                “Tell me what is on your mind, sir,” the priest said.

                “The papers say those girls were killed by Satanists,” John whispered. “Where was your God then?”

                The priest frowned and his eyes darkened. “What happened to those girls was horrific. But we have free will. We cannot blame God for the actions of others. He, above all, is innocent.”

                “I just can’t see it the way you do,” John said. Some people were just content to live in their delusions. John felt sorry for this man; he had dedicated his life to a fairy tale, and he believed himself so earnestly it hurt.

                “That’s okay,” the priest said. “God still loves you.”

                “Hmm,” John said. “And what do you think of the murders, Father?”

                The priest sighed and thumbed at the corners of his Bible. “You’re right. The police do think they were killed by devil worshippers. It’s sickening, sir. Witchcraft, blood magic, virgin sacrifice—abominations! We’re a small town. I saw those girls around town all the time. We don’t get a lot of tourists, but the attention is horrible. I love this town, but I never wanted it to gain its notoriety like this. We’ve even got some Feds investigating. The FBI, down here! Can you believe that?”

                “FBI?” John squinted. “How long have they been down here?” FBI could be hunters, could be the actual FBI, but so long as there was a slim chance he could get in touch with somebody, he was going to take it.

                “Came in day before yesterday, I think. They interviewed me a little bit. Strange bunch for Federal Agents, but that must be a tough job. They probably see so much horrific stuff. I don’t envy their job.”

                “Do you know where they are?”

                The priest narrowed his eyes. “I think they’re staying at the Motel 6 near downtown. Why do you need to see them?”

                “Let’s just say, I think I have some info that might help them out.” Before the priest could respond, John began to walk away. “Thank you, Father.”

                Motel 6 definitely had to be a hunter. No way a real life Fed would camp out in a craphole like that. Now John just hoped it was a friendly hunter.


	3. Dean

CH 2

                “Have you seen this man?” Dean slid the picture over to the sleazy looking check out guy and bite the inside of his cheek as he examined it. He looked up past Dean, scratching at his ratty, red beard.

                “Yeah, I have,” he said.

                “Really? Where? When?” Dean almost yelled, but his heart had nearly burst out of his chest.

                The guy slid the picture back, leaving a greasy fingerprint on the corners. “He’s right there,” he pointed over Dean. Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Sam lingering in the back, poking at different kinds of potato chips. Ice filled Dean’s veins, and he had to exhale to keep from yelling.

                “Not him,” Dean snapped. He slapped the picture back on the counter and jabbed his finger at Cas’s image. “That guy. Have you seen him?”

                “What, Donnie Darko? Nah, man,” he shrugged. “Sorry.” His eyes had the slightest tint of red glaze. Dean groaned internally; of course he got stuck with the stoner kid.

                “Thank you for your time.” He snatched the picture away and tucked it into his inside pocket before he stalked away from the counter, stomach curdling.  
                Sam strutted over to him. “No luck?”

                “Kid’s probably too high to remember if he actually did or not.” Dean led the way out to the car and slammed the door shut. He sighed in defeat and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel.

                “We’ll find him, Dean,” Sam said. He reached out and patted Dean’s back. “He’s tough, and he can take care of himself.”

                _No he absolutely cannot_ , Dean resisted saying. Cas could resolutely not take care of himself. He would get himself into trouble even if Dean locked him in an empty room. It was like a talent. Instead, his voice cracked and broke out, “It’s been two days.”

                It wasn’t the longest Dean had gone without seeing Cas, but it was the longest since they had busted out of Purgatory. Cas hadn’t been gone from his side for more than five minutes since they broke out—much of that was Dean enforced, mind you, but now Cas had been missing for two days and Dean had no way to contact him. Dean tried his cell phone, but only got a message that the number was disconnected, and when Sam tried to trace it, he got no response, which meant the SIM card was probably destroyed. Prayer wasn’t working, and the little, alcohol induced sleep Dean had gotten was bleak and dreamless. That was worrying; in the past, Cas’s freaky dream walking was the source of contact they used when everything else failed, always dependable, because they were humans and they needed to sleep, but now Cas wasn’t even doing that.

                “I know,” Sam said. “We’ll find him.”

                He shouldn’t have let Cas go alone. It was rule one of hunting, especially demons, never go alone. But Dean and Sam needed to interview the priest and families, and then they had to investigate the murder site.

                It made sense to split up. It would save them time, help them solve the case faster, and hopefully save another life. Besides, Cas couldn’t talk to civilians and victims without getting strange looks and worried lips; so Dean and Sam did the interviews like they normally did and Cas went to investigate the murder site, and that was two days ago and he hadn’t checked in.

                They had gone to the murder site and there was all the evidence from the murders but no sign of Cas. Did Cas even make it there?

                “I think we should go back to the site,” Sam said. “If we can find the demons, we can find Cas.”

                “Yeah,” Dean said. He licked his lips. “You’re right.” Cas was missing, but they still had a job to do, and they were more likely connected than not. “Okay, so that’s the plan?”

                “Yeah,” Sam said. “We have to work fast, though. I think there’s gonna be another murder in the next two or three days. Jen and Tamara were best friends, but if there is another murder, the victim has to be connected to them in some way or another.”

                “I still don’t trust that priest,” Dean said, putting the car in gear. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time a demon possessed one, but I don’t think he was possessed. I think he was just...”

                “What, a _priest_ of all people is secretly a Satanist?”

                Dean shrugged. “There are teachers that are secretly child molesters. You go where no one suspects you to go.”

                Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay. Yeah, might as well talk to him again. Don't have anything else to go on, so it can't hurt.”

                Dean turned the keys and relaxed slightly at the familiar hum of the Impala’s engine. The smell of leather and oil was his childhood, the roar of the engine the white noise that lulled him to sleep on long stretches of highway. Dean’s eyes glided up to the rear view mirror and caught sight of the backseat. It looked so empty without Cas there. The backseat had been empty for nearly eight years, Cas sitting back there only for the last few months; but he made it his own space in the short amount of time, while still being in Dean’s. All Dean had to do was glance up to the rear view mirror and he would meet Cas’s gaze.He could trust that every time Dean looked in the mirror, Cas would be looking back at him. After searching for Cas for nearly a year, it was nice to just have him there.

                When they found him, Dean was going to punch Cas in his stupid angel face for making him worry so much.

\--

                “Thank for meeting with us again, Father,” Sam said, shaking the priest’s hand. Dean stepped forward, his footsteps echoing inside the church. The pews were lined neatly, but when Dean ran his fingertips over the top of one, his fingers were coated in dust.

                “Of course, agents,” Father Smith said. Dean’s eyes were focused on the stained glass windows that cast a macabre of lights onto the red carpeting from the afternoon sun. Reds, blues, greens, and whites sparkled in diamond shapes on the floor. The windows had images of the Annunciation and Ascension, Christ’s crucifixion, with Mary Magdalen sobbing at his feet. Typical churchy images Dean was vaguely familiar with, spending many afternoons in Pastor Jim's church on Sunday mornings when Dad left them to finish a hunt.

                The room smelled stale. Dean walked up to the altar, at the hanging oversized crucifix. Dean walked up the steps and stood underneath Jesus’s feet, staring up.

                Dean frowned.

                Behind him, he heard footsteps. “Quite a graphic image, isn’t it Agent Rudd?”

                “I’m not really a religious man myself, Father,” Dean said. “But aren’t Jesus’s eyes supposed to be open?”

                The closed eyes were foreboding of death. The Crown of Thorns still dug deep into the skin, rivulets of blood running down his face in tear like stains, mouth open in pain; but the eyes were closed.

                Father Smith hummed. “No one ever likes to see their loved ones suffer.”

                “I thought that was the point of the whole Jesus thing. He suffered so we don’t have to.” Dean thought he could sympathize, at least a little. He sold his soul so Sam wouldn’t suffer death; even during their childhood Dean suffered hunger and their father so Sam wouldn’t have to.

                Father Smith turned to face Dean. “You’re not here to argue religion.”

                Dean licked his lips. He didn’t think the priest was possessed; didn’t mean the guy wasn’t working with demons. For a horrible moment, Dean imagined that this was their guy; and if he was, then he was involved in Cas’s capture in one way or another. He could have Cas trapped in a ring of holy fire down the basement, and that was the best case scenario. There were so many other, horrific scenarios going through Dean’s mind, that Cas could be enduring. Just entertaining the thought that Dean could be talking to someone complicit in anything that would hurt Cas made Dean nauseous. His hand curled into a fist.

                “Do you believe in demons?” Dean asked instead. His eyes searched the rest of the altar arena. He spotted in the far corner a large, bronze basin, filled to the brim with water.

                Father Smith frowned. “I believe that the Devil tempts us through a variety of means. Adultery, addiction, apathy—and those are just the A’s.”

                “But you don’t believe in demon demons? Black eyes, forked tongues, the whole nine yards?”

                Father Smith paled. “I don’t understand what this has to do with a murder investigation.”

                “Forgive my partner,” Sam said, stepping forward. “This case is…personal, to say the least.”

                “I could only imagine so,” Father Smith said. “Those girls weren’t even thirteen. And the way they died…”

                “It was horrible. And Jen and Tamara deserve justice to the fullest extent of the law. But we have to research every lead we have. Jen and Tamara were killed in what looks like a Satanic ritual; and we have reason to believe that their murderer is going to kill again. Know your enemy, right?”

                “Of course,” Father Smith said. “I must say, Agents, I don’t envy your job.”

                “Well, you couldn’t even if you wanted to, right?” Dean said, smiling. Sam glared at him, face red, eyebrows furrowed. Father Smith laughed softly though, a small breath.

                Dean stepped backwards slowly, towards the basin. Father Smith and Sam were talking, and Dean hoped Sam could keep him distracted long enough.

                “Satanists believe the Devil will exalt them with power if they sacrifice souls to him. Innocent souls, to be specific.”

                Dean stared into the basin of holy water. At the bottom he could see a silver crucifix sunk in at the bottom. This time, Jesus’s eyes were wide open, staring straight at Dean. Dean dipped his fingers into the water.

                “Have you noticed anything strange in the days before the murders? See any suspicions persons? Strange smells?” Sam asked.

                “Smells?”

                “Sulfur, specifically.”

                Father Smith crinkled his nose distastefully. He swallowed and licked his lips. “No, no smells. But…”

                “But?” Sam prodded gently.

                Father Smith leaned forward towards Sam. Dean had to struggle to hear what he was saying.

                “A few days before…the murders….Jen and Tamara were acting strangely.”

                “How?”

                “Their parents were complaining of them being skittish, paranoid and secretive. Jen went from an honor student to barely passing in the span of just one semester; Tammy too. We assumed it was typically teenage behavior.” He swallowed. “Do you think it might be related? Did they know their murderers?”

                Sam sighed. “That’s always a possibility.”

                Dean was right next to Sam, scanning the priest head to toe. Dean nudged Sam with his elbow. Sam clicked his tongue.

                “Thank you for your time, Father,” Sam said, shaking the priest’s hand.

                “Yes, of course, anything to see that justice is served.”

                Dean shook his hand too and his stomach dropped with disappointment when the man didn’t flinch at the holy water that still dampened Dean’s hand.

                “We’ll keep you updated best we can,” Dean said, even though he had no intention of ever talking to the priest again if he could help it. Dean didn’t like the guy, but he appeared clean.

\--

                “He’s not a demon,” Dean said as they walked out of the church. His hands were balled into tight fists inside his coat pockets, nails biting into the flesh of his palms. “Guy didn’t even blink when I touched him with the holy water.”

                “He said Jen and Tamara were acting strange the weeks before they were murdered.”

                Dean got to the driver’s side door. “You think they were up to something?”

                “Maybe?” Sam shrugged. “It’s something we have to consider, at least. Couple of kids stumble into the occult…maybe they summoned the demons.”

                “Great,” Dean said, throwing the car door open. Two kids stick their greasy little fingers into the life Dean was forced into by fate, and get themselves killed; unleashed who knows what onto their poor, unknowing little town. And they still weren’t any closer to finding Cas.

                The five o clock sun was setting fire to the sky, casting a burnt orange across to the horizon.

                Sam shut the door more gently behind him, struggling to get his long legs situated in the foot wells.  “Maybe we should head back to the motel,” Sam said. “He could be there right now waiting for us.”

                Dean doubted it, but he couldn’t stop that spark of hope that ignited in his heart. Dean put the car in gear and drove.

\--

                Cas was not at the motel. Dean had known, logically, that he wouldn’t be, but it still stung deep in his soul to enter the empty, dark motel room, with water stains on the ceiling, and a leaky faucet in the bathroom.

                Dean kicked the TV stand and then bit his lip to stop from crying out at the pain that shot up his leg, straight up his spine. Sam was shuffling behind him, setting up his laptop and pulling out his notes for the case. Dean stared at the TV screen, his reflection inside it. Three days ago, he and Cas were watching grainy _Full House_ re-runs, and Dean made sure to make snarky remarks at every opportunity. At its corniness, its preachy nature; its depiction of the “modern” American family, and how they dealt with their “modern” American problems.

                Like DJ whining about not having a date for prom when she was seventeen. When Dean was seventeen, he was cleaning up his dad’s vomit and helping Sam get ready for bed, nagging him about homework, even though Dean couldn’t help him with it anymore. Prom had been the last thing on Dean's mind. When Michelle Tanner had an imaginary friend, it was cute. In Dean’s life, kid starts talking about an imaginary friend, there’s probably a shtriga wandering around, waiting for a soul to eat.

                Dean wondered how the Tanners would react if one of their people suddenly disappeared for two days; if they knew about the creepy crawlies that existed outside their mediocre, vanilla society. They really were the definition of the apple pie life, and Dean learned already that wasn’t ever going to be for him.

                Jen and Tamara had it though, and they still threw it away.

                But for some inane reason, Cas liked the stupid show. And it was endearing to watch Cas enjoy something for once, so Dean stuck it through, even though he would rate enduring a _Full House_ marathon similar to the torture he endured in Hell; because he liked seeing Cas happy.

                When they found him, Dean would put up with all the bad television Cas wanted.

                But they still had to find him, and they had no leads, no suspects, no way to contact him. And the longer they hung around the town, the more suspicious it would look, more likely they would be caught by the real FBI.

                But Dean wasn’t going to leave until he had Cas in tow. He had the chance in Purgatory to split, get himself out and he refused, spent months searching for Cas. That was in Purgatory, with every kind of monster gunning for their necks and Dean had found him there. He would find Cas again.

                He had to.

                There was a weariness deep in his bones. Dean ached all over. He was aware that he was hungry, but the thought of food made him nauseous. He knew he had to sleep, but also knew he wouldn’t be able to do so without some kind of external help. Pills, alcohol; both if he could slip it past Sam. But he couldn’t look for Cas if he was hungover. Well, he could, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.

                Dean swallowed. He fell back onto the bed and rolled over on his stomach, still in full FBI gear.

                “Um,” Sam said. “You want me to get food?”

                Dean groaned and shook his head.

                “C’mon, you need to eat.”

                “I’ll be sick,” Dean muttered in the pillow.

                “If you’re sure.”

                Dean groaned into the pillow as a reply.

                He felt a large, gentle hand pat his back. “He’ll be alright, Dean.”

                The door opened and closed. Dean lay there, the silence pounding inside his head.

                _Hang in there, Cas. We’ll find you._


	4. John

CH 3

                There were four Motel 6s that the priest could have been talking about, John discovered after searching a phone book. Four Motel 6s stretched out within a twenty mile radius, leaving John with no way of knowing which one the hunters might be at. He thought about calling each one, just to ask about vacancy. By law, motels wouldn’t give out any identifying information, but hunters always stayed at the least busy place they could find. Less chance of getting seen or remembered. John had managed to find some change scattered in mud near a storm drain, but every pay phone he passed by was out of service.

                The change rattled uncomfortably in his pocket. John would touch it every now and then, spinning the coins between his fingers. His stomach growled, but John grimaced. He didn’t have enough money to buy the meal he desperately needed. He was also aware that he was dirty, and smelly; peoples' faces soured when he walked past them, but there wasn’t anything John could do about it. He had no options available: Nowhere to shower, no new clothes to change into.

                John walked with his back hunched over, the wind whipping at it his face, to the first of the motels. He passed a public library and paused in front of it.

                He was alive now. For reasons either benevolent or malicious he did not know, but still he was alive, and he had a job to do. He could use the computers inside to make fake identities and get some new, desperately needed credit cards, but that would take weeks. He needed money _now._

                There was only option John had at the moment to get money fast. He continued walking.

\--

                It was only four in the afternoon, but the bar was fairly busy with the typical after lunch crowd still loitering around. The smells were familiar and loosened something inside John he hadn’t known he’d been holding onto. The familiar smell of beer and cigarette smoke was relaxing; country music was playing lowly on the loudspeakers, glasses being slide across the bar.

                The quaint, familiar clacking of pool bars breaking.

                A group of college aged boys were playing a game. Tall, suavely looking boys. They immediately reminded John of Dean in nearly every way. How they held themselves, the loose roll to their shoulders, those self-assured grins. All Dean.

                God, he missed his boys. He hoped that when he found these hunters, they’d lead him to Dean. He wasn’t sure if he should be mourning Sam, but he held onto the small, unlikely hope that Dean had been able to save his brother after all.

                Somehow, he ended up right next to the pool table. He watched the boys play for a full minute and decided they were decent.

                But they were still boys, and John was better.

                “See something you like, grandpa?” One of them asked, tall and blonde, a near burnt cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

                “You boys interested in a little game?” John asked. He dug his hands into his jacket pockets. He estimated he had less than two dollars in change. He pulled it from his pockets and placed it onto the edge of the table with a clatter.

                The three boys leered at each again.

                “You really have to up the stakes, grandpa,” the blonde one said.

                “That’s all I have.”

                “Lousy, redneck bum,” the dark haired one said. “Why don’t you get a fucking job?”

                John’s eyes hardened. “If you guys don’t think you can beat an old bum, I understand.”

                “Now just wait a fucking minute, grandpa—“

                “This,” John tapped the stack of coins, “is all I have. I play and I lose, I lose everything. You, though, lose by not playing. Pride, that is. Because you were too chickenshit to play a simple game of pool with an old bum, ain’t that right?”

                The boys were short tempered like Dean too, John found out. But he knew he had them, with the tight set lines of their mouths and the burning hatred behind their eyes. “So tell me boys…what’s your pride worth?”

\--

                John walked out of the bar fifty bucks richer, and the crumpled fives and tens burned a hole in his pocket. His stomach rumbled loudly too, and with his hands stuffed deep inside his pocket, curled protectively over the money, he made his way to a Burger King. It was nearly empty, with just an elderly couple in the far booth, and the bored, teenaged cashier at drumming her fingers on the counter top. He read the dusty, overhead menu and discovered that even though he’d been dead for seven years, some things hadn’t changed.

                When he got his food, he felt self-conscious sitting at the table, staring at it. It was too much food, he thought, but then his stomach growled again and his mouth was already salivating. He bit into the burger and then he couldn’t help himself and began to gorge himself on the burger, and fries, and onion rings, using more ketchup than appropriate. He licked it off his fingers and took large gulps of his soda with his mouth still full of food.

                His last meal had been seven years ago, and it had been shitty hospital food. He was at the very least entitled to acting like a pig when he finally got to eat some real food.

                The elderly couple stared at him the entire time, faces pulled in disgust. John made eye contact with them, glaring, as he chewed into the meat of his burger.

                He worried he’d spent too much money of the meal, but in the end his hunger overrode his frugality. He would have to be more careful with the remaining money, but in the meantime he was going to relish every bit of this meal. A first meal, he thought wryly.

                He felt immensely better having food in his stomach. Warmer too, straight from his head to his toes. He threw his trash away and went back outside, prepared to start his search for the Motel 6s over again. Except, however, right as he was leaving the building he heard a familiar rumble of an engine, racing down the narrow city streets. John’s eyes were immediately caught and locked onto it.

                It was an Impala. Moreover, it looked just like _his_ Impala, the one he’d given to Dean. Only a handful of those specs had been made; and considering his Impala would be over fifty years old by now, the one he saw racing down the road looked brand new.

                It couldn’t be, John thought. It was probably someone else’s. A handful was still more than one, and more than likely it wasn’t his Impala, but another.

                Still. It would irresponsible not to at least check it out.

                He ran. His feet hit the pavement hard and each step sent electricity up his spine. His arms were pendulums, used to spring him forward. For a moment, there was only the sound of his feet on the hot concrete and the blood that pumped in his ears, like a tidal wave. He couldn’t see the Impala anymore, but he could hear its roaring engine and tracked it down, thankful for once of the congested traffic he’d seen in this city.

                He saw the black, shiny car parked in a diner. He approached it slowly, and suddenly was afraid all of this was a dream. As soon as he touched it, everything would shatter. He would close his eyes and when he opened them again, he wouldn’t see a cruddy parking lot with his car in front of him. He would be back on the rack and Alastair would be leering over him, tongue curling around a hot knife, prepared to stick it back in the bleeding hole in John’s gut.

                John gulped and suddenly he was going to be sick. Bile crept up and burned his throat and the world was spinning. He was so dizzy, he fell forward, bracing himself against the side of the car.

                He clamped his eyes shut. He didn’t want to go back to Hell.

                Behind him were still the sounds of traffic.

                He peeled his eyes open like scabs. The car was still there, solid underneath his fingers. He caught sight of his reflection in the window. Did he always look that haggard? Or was that Hell carved into his skin?

                John peered in. Through the window, he could see the far door and the carvings of _DW, SW_ in the door.

                Tears pricked at his eyes. He sniffed and swallowed them down, tasting salt in the very back of his throat. This was his car. One of his boys had driven it here.

                He heard someone walking behind him.

                “Hey, can I help you, sir?”

                John knew that voice. He couldn’t believe it. He straightened up, spine and shoulders stiff and turned around slowly.

                Sam’s eyes widened and he dropped the brown paper bag he’d been carrying.

                God, Sam had grown so much. He looked much older, more mature in the face and how he carried himself.

                Sam was alive.

                His baby boy…

                “Hey, son,” John said, smiling through his tears.


	5. Sam

   Sam’s earliest memory came from when he was five years old. He remembered he was in a motel room, but didn’t remember where. He was sitting on a dingy motel bed, pressed against Dean, as Dean read to him from a stolen copy of _Knights of The Round Table._ Sam remembered being mesmerized by his older brother reading; watched as Dean pushed through the difficult words and made up different, funny voices, for all the different characters. He wished in that instance that one day he could be as smart as Dean.

                Sam had other memories too. Dean teaching him how to tie his shoes, and his times tables. Dean standing on the seats of kitchen chairs so that he was tall enough to reach the stove. Dean nagging him about laundry, and homework, and if he brushed his teeth. For Sam’s junior prom, Dean was the one who wrangled up a corsage for his date because “it would be a total douche bag move to go without one”.

                And now that he was older, when Sam looked back on those memories, he saw things more clearly. Like how his clothes were always relatively clean and generally new, but Dean wore thrift shop hand-me-downs stained with dirt; and how when they were low on food and money, Dean would go hungry so Sam wouldn’t have too.

                When Sam thought about his childhood, and the good parts of it, he thought of Dean. The few times he did think of his dad, it was bitter filled and red. He thought of weeks without a phone call, of learning to clean a shotgun while all his friends were learning to ride their bikes; of lonely Christmases and baloney sandwich Thanksgivings, of presenting with pride his Honor Roll report cards only to get an angry glare and a “So what? Knowing fancy math won’t prepare you for a vamp hunt”.

                Age had also shown Sam another perspective of their dad. His dad had been trying to make the best out of a horrible situation.

                But that didn’t excuse his dad’s behavior, and understanding his dad’s perspective didn’t take away Sam’s pain or bitterness.

                After their dad died, Sam didn’t give much thought to it. There were other matters to attend to, and in the hunting world, mourning finished after the body was burned.

                Resurrection was no longer a foreign concept to Sam. He’d been resurrected; Dean too, and Cas had his own sort of guardian angel looking over him, bringing him back again and again.

                They’d been busy these few days, first with the case itself and then Castiel’s apparent capture. Every minute that ticked by that they didn’t find Cas, Dean went closer to the edge. Sam saw Dean go over that cliff when Cas was killed by the Leviathans; he wasn’t prepared to watch his older brother go through it again.

                And since Dean had barely eaten since Cas vanished, Sam had to take it upon himself to see that Dean ate. Dean feed him when he was incapable; now it was Sam’s turn. It was supposed to be a quick grab and go from a questionable diner in town. But when Sam walked out of the door, takeaway in hand, and he saw the stranger peering into the Impala, Sam’s mind hit a brick wall. The bag slipped out of his fingers onto the asphalt.

               

               His Dad smiled sheepishly. “Hello, son.”

                Sam’s wits finally came about him. He reached inside his inner jacket pocket and grabbed his vial of holy water, splashing it onto the creature that looked like his dad.

                The lookalike flinched and licked the water off his lips. Sam pulled his silver knife from his belt loop.

                “Stick out your arm,” Sam demanded.

                The John lookalike complied, rolling up the sleeve of a green jacket. Sam cut a small line on the inside of its forearm. Blood swelled up like it usually would, but there was no burning.

                Sam stared at the lookalike eye’s.

                “Glad to see you still remember all that I taught you.”

                “Dad?” Sam said, suddenly feeling very small. Like he was a kid again. He stepped back, swallowing. “How…?”

                John looked down at his hands, flexing fingers into a tight fist. “I don’t know,” he said lowly. “I just…woke up. In a field not far from here.”

                “When?”

                “Few days ago.”

                Sam inhaled, ignoring the pang in his chest. His head began to throb. This was his dad. His dad was alive.

                How was he going to explain this to Dean?

                “I heard about the case,” John explained. “I didn’t wake up too far from here. I saw it in a newspaper and I came to check it out. I was hoping that I’d meet some hunters who would lead me to you, but…” John grinned wide, showing all his teeth. “This is great!” John stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders. Sam stayed stiff, breath trapped in his lungs. He had to force himself to raise his arms and hug his dad back. His arms felt like they were full of lead. Too many swift, conflicting emotions raced through his mind. He had never gotten along with his dad. He spent over twenty years resenting every decision his father ever made; sometimes he purposefully got into arguments with John, purposefully pissed him off, just because he could. Because he resented his dad for leaving him and Dean alone while he went on hunts; for the times when John took Dean with him and Sam was left all by himself for days at a time. And while he’d been devastated when his dad died (His last words to his Dad had been ‘go to hell!’ and John actually did) it wasn’t the same level of devastation he met when Ellen and Jo died, or when Bobby died.

                Did that make him a terrible person? He shared DNA with John Winchester, but some days Sam thought that was all the connection they had. And it wasn’t like that was monumental—really, it wasn’t any different than any of the other tens of thousands of children who had been adopted, and met with their biological parents at one point. They shared blood and genes, but those people weren’t their parents, not in any of the ways that counted.

                “Where’s your brother?” John asked, finally releasing Sam.

                Sam’s muscles grew taut. Dean had been destroyed when Dad died, because Dean had loved and respected John his entire life. Sometimes Sam worried about the severity of Dean’s idolization, because at some points it bordered on actual idolatry, but as more time went by, Dean had gotten better. He had acknowledged that John Winchester was a shitty parent. He might have been a good, brave man, but he couldn’t be for his children what he was for the poor sons of bitches he saved from vampires and werewolves.

                Not that there would ever be a good time for one’s father to emerge from the grave, but now really was not the time. Dean was neck deep in the case, while being worried sick about Castiel. He wasn’t eating, or sleeping, and Sam showing up with their dead dad in tow would not help at all. Dean was already teetering on the edge of relapse, back into alcohol. This would be more than enough to shove him over.

                “Uh,” Sam said. “He’s at the motel. Researching. For the case.” Because Sam could only imagine what kind of rage fit his dad would go into if he knew the truth; that Dean was depressed and barely functioning and—

                Shit. They were going to have to explain Cas. Sam chewed on his lip. Maybe they didn’t need to tell their dad about the angel bit? They were going to have to explain angels too…And the Almost Apocalypse. Ruby and the demon blood…But, all that was in the past. Cas was…

              Maybe they should tell him that Cas was just another hunter. A regular, human hunter. Of course leaving out the parts that he might sort of be sleeping with Dean. Sam wasn’t totally sure, and he was fine with not knowing the exact details of Cas and Dean’s relationship. Sam loved both of them dearly, but there were just somethings a brother didn’t need to know.

                “I was just on a food run,” Sam said, scratching at the back of his head. He looked down at the brown paper bag and reached for it, frowning. He peered into the bag, trying to determine if the food as completely ruined or not.

                “Looks like you might need to re-order.”

                Sam saw the squashed remains of the burger, ketchup smeared all inside the bag, leaking out the bottom. “Yeah,” Sam said. “Dean’ll be pissed if I don’t come back with food.”

                “Your bother still hasn’t outgrown that appetite of his, huh?”

                Sam huffed awkwardly; he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to respond. He turned back into the diner, painfully aware of his father’s every step right behind him. Sam knew now that of course it was actually his dad, but instinct was rooted in paranoia, and he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being stalked by a monster. Which was ridiculous. John Winchester was a grade A dick, but he wasn’t a monster.

                Sam gulped as he re-ordered food, ignoring the suspicious glare the cashier gave him.

                He waited awkwardly, aware of his dad’s eyes burning holes into him.

                “So,” Sam coughed. “Dad. Do you remember….y’know?” He glanced around. The diner wasn’t too packed, and it seemed no one was paying him any particular mind, but you could never be too careful, could never be too sure of who exactly was present and listening.

                “Sam, if you have something to say, say it.”

                Clearly, John wasn’t afraid of being overheard. Sam glanced around again, could feel the nervous goosebumps rising on his skin. Every part of him itched horribly.

                “Hell,” Sam whispered. “Do you remember it?”

                John bore into him with a dark, brooding stare. “That’s not the sort of thing you just forget, Sam,” he said tonelessly.

                Sam gulped. “Right.” He didn’t really remember any of stint in Hell; Castiel took those when he took on Sam’s madness. Sam realized he hadn’t ever actually thanked Castiel for that. He made a mental note to do so as soon as he could, because he saw what the memories did to Dean on his very bad nights. And Dad had been in Hell for one hundred years—over twice the length Dean had been in. “Sorry,” Sam muttered.

                “I think I remember a light,” John said.

                “You think?”

                “It’s not very clear. More like a dream. But there was this light, and I thought I saw you and Dean, but it’s all very fuzzy. The next thing I knew, I was alive again.”

                The cemetery, Sam thought. The Devil’s Gate, where Dean killed Yellow Eyes. John’s ghost had appeared for a brief moment to save them, before disappearing to Heaven. So John remembered that, but he didn’t remember Heaven?

                There was a lot they needed to discuss eventually, Sam thought. He remained silent until the cashier came with his order. He thanked her and smiled gently, huffing quietly when she returned it, a red blush coming to her cheeks.

                The bag clutched tightly in his hand, Sam left the diner with his dad still trailing right behind. Sam got right in the driver’s side and he did notice the stiffness that came to his dad’s jaw. John didn’t say anything though, and Sam was grateful; he didn’t want to get into with his dad over who was driving.

                Besides, it wasn’t his dad’s car anymore.

                The silence of the drive was torturous. The engine was normally obnoxiously loud, but Sam welcomed it this time. He’d even take Dean’s ear bleeding volume of music just as a special bonus, but he couldn’t make himself turn the stereo on; his fingers were white knuckled around the steering wheel.

                The silence couldn’t last forever, though.

                “What progress have you boys made on the case?”

                Sam swallowed. “Um, not much. We think the girls were…dabbing in black magic.”

                “You saying those girls summoned the demons that killed them?”

                “We think that it’s a possibility we have to consider. We thought a priest might be involved at first, but we interviewed him today, and he seems pretty clean.”

                “Hm. He the guy that was holding the prayer service today?”

                “I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You talked with him?”

                “We had an interesting discussion about theology.”

                “Oh.” Sam could only imagine how that sort of conversation with his dad went. Probably worse than one with Dean. Dean at least wouldn’t call you a moron straight to you face.

                “You sure the guy’s cleared? A priest would know more about demons than two little girls. How would two little girls even find out about that kind of shit?”

                “Uh, the Internet?” Sam said. “Anyone can find anything online if they really want to.” Though Sam had to consider that his dad was a bit of a Luddite. John had been pissed when music tapes were becoming harder and harder to find because the rest of the world had moved onto CDs. The Internet, even, was still in its late infancy when John had died. It probably wasn’t something he ever considered as a resource, which was difficult for Sam to wrap his head around. The Internet was probably the best tool he had for the job.

                “And, anyway,” Sam said. “We’re not one hundred percent on the priest, but we know he’s not a demon. He passed a holy water test, and he spends ten hours a day in a room with a giant crucifix hanging over him. We’ve got nothing to hold against him.”

                Sam pulled into the motel parking lot and his throat felt like it was swollen shut. He put the car in park and pinched himself slightly on his thigh, still horrified that this wasn’t a dream. He was actually awake, and his actual dad was actually sitting next to him. And Sam was just…supposed to walk right into the motel room with his dad trailing right behind and say what? “Hey, Dean, look who I ran into! Isn’t fate crazy?”

                The worst part was Sam actually had no idea just how Dean would react. Positive, negative, indifferent—any one of those options was viable.  And Sam couldn’t put it off, just have Dad wait in the car while he warned Dean. There was no way to warn anyone about this kind of thing.

                He just had to do it and get it over with; like resetting a dislocated shoulder. It would hurt like a motherfucker while it was being done, but once it was over…

                “Okay,” Sam said, stepping out of the car. “Let’s uh…let’s go see Dean.”


	6. John

Dean was beginning to grow antsy. He tapped his fingers on the nightstand, flipped through the twelve channels on the television, and his eyes kept sliding over to the alarm clock, the red numbers dragging on.

                There was a lot of reasons why Sam might not be back yet. Traffic. Maybe he couldn’t find a good place to grab food. Maybe an old lady needed help crossing the street. Maybe he got lost.

                Dean reached onto his pocket and pulled out his phone. He wasn’t surprised that there were no new messages, but he was disappointed.

                He stood up and walked to the bathroom, splashing water on his face. He knew he was being ridiculous. Sam was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

                _About as well as Cas can_ , a bitter voice in his head whispered. Dean ground his teeth and tried to ignore it. He knew he was overreacting. Sam was just going to get food.

                _So why hasn’t he come back yet then?_

                Dean stomped back over to the bed and forced himself to stare at the television commercial, watching the bright, flashing colors and high pitched jingle. Everything was too much suddenly; the colors changed too much, the volume painful, even when Dean turned it down to nearly mute.

                And when he finally heard the doorknob jiggle, every muscle grew taut, and he instinctively reached for his pistol tucked underneath his pillow. When the door pushed opened though, Dean released a shuddering breath.

                Sam came in, with a beautiful bag of food. Dean hadn’t been hunger earlier, but now that the smell of food was assaulting his senses, his stomach growled and the pains began to register in Dean’s mind.

                “Hey,” Dean said, standing up. “What took you so long?”

                Sam looked pale. “I ran into a little something.”

                Dean squinted his eyes. Sam was hiding something. He knew that jaw twitch, that curl of fingers.

                “How bad?” Dean asked.

                “Just...see for yourself,”  Sam said. He stepped to the side and then Dean noticed the figure that had been hiding behind his brother the entire time.

                Before Dean knew what was happening, his Dad had thrown his arms around him, trapping him in a smothering hug. Dean’s arms hung limp at his side. His eyes skirted over to Sam, who was assessing them.

                “Dad?” Dean said gruffly. John patted Dean on the back and released him, but still kept a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean stared into his eyes. The smile lines and happy eye crinkles were foreign on John’s face, especially that chin splitting, toothy smile that was too wide, too bright.

                “Dean,” John said. “Look at you. A real man now.” John’s eyes skimmed Dean head to toes and it felt intrusive. Dean’s eyes were back to Sam.

                “I did all the tests,” Sam shrugged. “Far as I can tell, it’s really him.”

                “How?” Dean said. His tongue was fat in his mouth. His emotions swirled in his head, muddled and conflicted, torn between elation and devastation.

                “I don’t know myself,” John said. “I just woke up.”

                “You just woke up,” Dean said, tasting each word. His hunger was gone, once again replaced by nausea. His heart rate was racing; Dean could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. “People don’t just come back from the dead.”

                Magic was always involved one way or the other. Dean brought Sam back through dark magic, a demon deal; the power of his soul. And God was the one who kept hitting Cas’s reset button. But good or bad, there was always something behind the dead suddenly coming back to life. Dean couldn’t imagine anyone that would have done a demon deal to bring back John Winchester. Could God have brought back his Dad?

                “I’m aware,” John said. “But I really don’t have answers for you boys. I feel like myself.” John surveyed the hotel room. His eyes landed on the notebook paper spread across the coffee table, written in shaky, near illegible script. Nowhere near as neat as Sam or Dean’s. Cas said something once about how foreign writing English letters were compared to Enochian script.

                “Who wrote those?” John asked.

                Dean met Sam’s eyes again.

                “Our friend,” Sam said. Dean had never been more grateful for Sam stepping in before; he had no clue how he was going to explain Cas to his dad. “Castiel. He’s a hunter.”

                John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Well, where is he?”

                “Um, well…he’s MIA at that moment.”

                “What?”

                “We were working on the case here in town, and decided to split up. We sent him to investigate the murder site, but he never came back. That was almost three days ago now.”

                “We’ve been working overtime on the case,” Dean said, finally feeling confident enough to step in. “We figure, we find who’s responsible for the murders, we find him.”

                “How long have you been working with this Castiel?”

                “Four, five years by now,” Dean said. Gosh, they’d known Cas a long time. “He’s great. Like, specially trained in this kind of work.”

                “Hm.”

                “So, Dad,” Sam said. “I know we have a lot to catch you up on, and we will, I promise. But solving the case and finding Cas is kind of priority number one at the moment. We’ve kind of hit a dead end on both spots, and…”

                “We’ll find your friend, Sam,” John said. John’s confidence relaxed something in Dean; something deep in his gut uncoiled. He wasn’t sure why his Dad was here. He wasn’t sure if it was overall a good thing or a bad thing. But his Dad was the greatest hunter in the world. If anyone could find Cas, it would be him.

                “You boys got any idea where he might be?” John said.

                “Not one,” Sam said. “We’ve asked around town too, and no one’s seen him.”

                “Well, I guess we’ll have to look hard. I think we’ve wasted enough daylight hours already, don’t you? If we wanna find your friend, we better get looking.”

                It was amazing how his dad hadn’t changed one bit: He was completely focused on the job that needed to be done, and Dean was so grateful towards his dad. His dad was so confident and sure, it eased away some of Dean’s anxiety.

                His stomach rumbled. Sam glared at him and Dean’s cheeks burned, but he kept his gaze as steady as he could.

                “What?” he said. “I haven’t eaten in like, two days. Cut me some slack.”

                Sam sighed and handed the bag over to Dean. Dean snatched it away, inhaling the scent of the food inside.

                “Want us to give you a moment alone?” Sam said.

                “Shut up, bitch,” Dean said, shoving a stray French fry into his mouth. It actually wasn’t that good; it was cold and soggy, and way over salted, but it was food and he was stuffing another fry into his mouth before he had even finished chewing the first one.

                He was exhilarated now. For the hunt, for finding Cas. Preparing himself to punch Cas in the face when they found him as punishment for making Dean worry like this.

                Plus, maybe Cas had some insight on the situation with his dad. If this was actually a good thing, maybe they could all be a family together. Sam, Cas, and Dad; the four of them combined, no sort of monster stood any sort of chance against them.

                Dean grinned. Yeah, he could get used to the idea of that.

\--

                John sat in the backseat of the Impala, shifting uncomfortably every few minutes. He never realized before how cramped the back was. His knees were practically pulled up to his chest. He stared out the window, at the setting, Ohio sun, focusing in on the sounds of evening. Traffic, and the animals, the roar of the engine; he was hearing them. They were reminders that he was alive.

                Some part of him still wasn’t convinced that this was real. Maybe he really was still strung up on a rack in Hell, and this was all just another ploy drawn by Alastair to torment him. John was torn between wanting to relish, savor, and enjoy life again, and his boys, and remaining distant, apathetic in case none of this was real and he was just setting himself up for more torture.

                He wanted to believe. He thought he could believe.

                His boys had changed so much. Dean was older, more worn in the face. It reminded John of his Marine pals returning from the fields of Vietnam. The eyes of a man who’s seen the face of Death looming over his back. The eyes of a man well acquainted with war. Sam had it too, but it seemed to ring louder within Dean, as though he carried it in his bones.

                Dean hadn’t hugged him back. John tried not to be hurt by it. This had to be terrifying for them, foreign territory.

                Speaking of foreign…

                He wasn’t sure how to feel about this hunter friend his boys were looking for. John himself rarely ever worked with other hunters, reserving it for only when he absolutely had to. John had trusted a ten year old Dean to manage a gun and watch his back more than any other person on Earth, especially other hunters. They were a vile bunch by nature. From what John understood of the conversation, this wasn’t just a hunter joining them for this single hunt. This hunter traveled with them. Had for some time, actually. He probably sat in this exact spot in the car. John wondered if it was as uncomfortable for him as it was for John.

                Castiel.

                John muttered the name, testing it with his teeth, tasting it. He wasn’t sure what sort of name that was. If Castiel was the kind of man John wanted around his children. The only other hunter John had ever trusted with his boys was Bobby Singer; John was reluctant to believe that the hunter community had changed within the years he’d been dead, and that this Castiel fellow was any different than the dozens of other poor, wicked sons of bitches John avoided as best he could. Dean and Sam both seemed adamant about rescuing him though, and John knew they were probably right in that if they found their friend, they could find the demons that killed those little girls.

                Dean drove the car while Sam navigated. John had crumpled in his hands a photograph of Sam and the man who was supposed to be Castiel. He looked to be a stern fellow, eyes heavily focused onto the camera. John couldn’t place the emotion that danced in his eyes, whether it was anger, or cheerfulness, because they seemed to contrast starkly with the expressions he wore in his face.

                John looked out both windows for the man that matched the photograph. Every now and then, Sam would lean out the window and yell “Castiel!” adamantly ignoring the concerned and annoyed looks pedestrians shot towards them. Dean did it less often, his attention mostly kept onto the road, but when he did call for his friend, his voice was shrill, cracking sometimes, and getting more and more desperate the longer they drove on.

                They drove to the original murder site, taped off with yellow police line, but it appeared no one was there. Dean put the car in park and scrambled out of the car, digging through the trunk before John even maneuvered out of the backseat.

                John caught a flashlight Dean threw at him, but his eyes were drawn to the paint drawn on the lid of the trunk.

                “Devil’s trap?” he said.

                Dean shrugged. “It’s come in handy a few times.”

                “That another part of the story you boys owe me?”

                “We’ll tell you everything eventually, Dad,” Sam said, pulling out a serrated knife and slipping it in his belt loop. “But this is kind of top priority.”

                “This Castiel guy a good friend of yours?”

                “The best,” Dean said, slamming the trunk lid shut. “He’s saved our lives.”

                The sincerity in Dean’s eyes was painful. John swallowed. “Well, I can’t wait to meet him, in that case.”

                The smile Dean gave was so pure and childlike. It was reminiscent of the Dean John knew before he died; the younger, carefree Dean, who loved the job with every cell in his body.

                “C’mon,” Sam said, ducking underneath the police tape. “Castiel?” He said lowly, turning on his flashlight. The warehouse was damp and dusty. John was hit with the smell of blood almost at once. There were chalk outlines drawn on the floor, evidence markers in a few places where there were sigils drawn on the grounds and walls. Overall, it wasn’t a large room. John could see every corner from his spot just by the door.

                Sam and Dean swept the corners.            

                “Shit,” Dean said. “There’s still nothing here.”

                “Maybe he wasn’t ever here?” Sam suggested.

                “Then where the hell would they take him?” Dean said. John could hear a note of hysteria in his voice.

                “I don’t know,” Sam said. “But, Dean, he’s gonna be okay. If they wanted him dead, they would have left him somewhere they knew he would be found.”

                “Would they?”

                “Why wouldn’t they? If they want to send a warning…”

                “We’ve got no other leads. Where the hell are we supposed to even start looking?”

                Sam sighed.

                “I don’t know Dean.”

                “Well, that’s just fucking perfect.”

                While his boys walked, John kept staring at the sigils painted on the floors and walls. They were complicated, swirls and sharp, jutting angles, random dots—and it all appeared to be drawn in blood. Bile burned at the base of John’s throat. He hated demons.

                “Back to the car, I guess,” Dean said, stomping past John back towards the car. “Burning daylight, pissing away valuable time while Cas is where the hell ever, probably being tortured. Great.”

                Dean began throwing his weapons back into the trunk.

                John looked at Sam. Sam walked over slowly, toeing the police line, nose scrunching up.

                “He always get like that?” John asked.

                “He’s just worried.”

                “Are you worried?”

                “A little,” Sam said, huffing. “Don’t get me wrong. Cas is strong. Resilient son of a bitch too. But he’s only been staying with us permanently for these last couple months and he’s always checked in whenever we’ve split up. We’ve got no word going on three days now. And you know, you can be the smartest hunter, the strongest hunter, but a person can only handle so much at once. We know there are at least two demons. They could be more. And two, three, four demons against even the best hunter in the world is an unfair match.”

                “You boys dealing a lot with demons suddenly?”

                John had dealt with a few demons here and there, but they were rare. He could go a year or two and not deal with any demonic activity.

                “Yeah,” Sam laughed humorlessly. “You could say we specialize in demons.”

                “Demons are rare.”

                Sam shrugged. “Not anymore.”

                They were interrupted by Dean blaring the horn.

                “Come on!” He yelled. “If you don’t get your asses in the car, I’m leaving without you!”

                Sam rolled his eyes and walked towards the car. John scanned the room one last time, eyes lingering on the petite chalk outlines in the cement, blood stained on the ground.

                He turned and headed to the car.

\--

                The windows were slightly cracked and the cool, summer air roared inside the car. John eyed out the window, watching the scenery blur away. John glanced briefly at the clock pinned in the dashboard, the green numbers reading 2:04 AM.

                John swallowed. His exhaustion ran bone deep, and he was desperate to be horizontal on a soft, comfy bed. When he agreed to help his boys find their friend, he didn’t expect them to just drive around the city four times. The sidewalks were void of anything living. Restaurant lights were turned off, and the streetlamps were flickering, straining John’s eyes.

                He wanted to tell his boys to call it a night. They could start the search again after they slept some. None of them were going to be any use to anyone working on zero sleep.

                But John bit his tongue. He knew that determined glare in Dean’s eyes, coupled with that jaw clench. Dean would run himself straight into the ground to get a job done, a trait John had always been proud of. But they had no leads, no clues, no suspects; nothing to lead them to the demons that were looming in the dark corners of this town, and no word on their friend.

                “Should we put out a 10-57?” Dean asked right as the clock turned to 2:29 AM.

                “No,” Sam said. “We want to stay incognito, remember Dean? Putting out a report will only draw suspicion.”

                Dean groaned. “I don’t know what to do, Sam.”

                “We just keep driving,” Sam said.

                “Maybe we should call it a night,” John said. “We can start back up first thing in the morning, but we’re not doing anyone any good wearing ourselves thin like this.”

                John met Dean’s eyes in the rear view mirror. The glare he saw was like a physical slap. Not the glare itself, but who it was coming from. He got that glare from Sam all the time, sometimes several times a day, but Dean had always received him with nothing but respect and admiration, even when Dean had to play referee between John and Sam. Seeing that look from Dean made John’s blood run like ice.

                “No way,” Dean said. “You can sleep if you want, but I’m not resting till I find Cas.”

                For a brief moment, John saw red. His temple throbbed. It lasted just a fraction of a second, though, ending when Sam distracted him.

                “Dean, stop the car!”

                Dean slammed on his brakes, forcing the car to lurch forward. John slammed into the back of the seat, pain exploding in his jaw. He had bitten down on his cheek and was tasting blood.

                “I think I see him,” Sam said, pointing out the window. John looked out and saw a lone figure walking in their direction. It was difficult to make out his features in the dark.

                “Shit,” Dean said, forcing the car over onto the shoulder and putting it in park. “Shit, it is him.”

                Dean was out the door and racing towards the figure while Sam and John struggled to get out. John went to approach the man, this Castiel, but he was stopped when Sam put a hand on his shoulder. John looked over and Sam just shook his head.

                John saw Dean race to the man, his stomach bubbling when he saw that the man looked like he’d gone through a car wash of blood. It was matted in his hair and ran down his clothing in tear-like rivulets. He had bruises lining his jaw, a black eye and a split lip. From the blood stains, it looked like there were more wounds still bleeding underneath his coat.

                “Fuck,” Dean said, grabbing onto Castiel’s shoulder. Even from this distance, John could see the redness seeping onto Dean’s skin.

                 “They broke my phone,” Castiel said sadly. The timber of his voice surprised John. It was rough and authoritative; and like his eyes it didn’t match his expression. Unlike in the photograph John had seen, Castiel’s expression here was gentle. He was even smiling a little, and it had a childlike quality to it.

                “We’ll get you a new one. How’re you feeling?”

                “I’m okay, Dean,” Castiel said. “It’s over.”

                “You got ‘em?” Dean said, peeling away the tan coat from Castiel’s shoulder.

                “The demons are dead.”

                Dean huffed. “Great job,” he said. “Why aren’t you healing?”

                Castiel was panting heavily. He reached up to the lapels of his dark jacket and pulled it back. Around his neck was a thick, silver collar that had strange script written in it.

                “Son of a bitch!” Dean yelled. His fingers traced lightly along the collar, rubbing at the markings. Sam inhaled a horrified gasp. John stepped slightly closer, curious to get a closer look. He had never seen markings quite like that before.

                “It’s blocking my grace,” Castiel said. “I can’t take it off.”

                Grace?

                Dean’s fingers trailed all the way around. “Can we take it off?”

                Castiel closed his eyes and breathed heavily. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I believe so. It’s only magicked against me.”

                It happened again—a spark of something in the air, the lighting. A woman was behind Dean and this Castiel, facing towards John. She had brown hair pinned tightly in a bun, and wore a blue pantsuit; her mouth was fixed in what John presumed to be a near-permanent scowl, her gaze focused directly at him.

                Before John could open his mouth to say anything, she was gone.

                John blinked harshly, wondering where his sanity was going. He must have imagined her.

                “Fuck, man,” Dean said, gripping Castiel’s elbow. It pulled John out of his trance and back to the matter at hand. Sam already had the backseat open and began to dig through the trunk. “What happened?” Dean lead Castiel to the seat, facing outwards, right as Sam appeared with a pair of bolt cutters.

                “Ambushed,” Castiel said. “They knew I was coming.”

                “Here,” Sam said, bolt cutters steady in his hand. “Okay, Cas, lean forward.”  Castiel leaned forward towards Dean. Dean pulled back Castiel’s hair, showing the back of the collar. John watched them work in unison, shocked.

                “Shit, that’s tight,” Sam said. “What if I cut the skin?”

                “Just be careful,” Dean said. “We need to get it off before he bleeds out.”

                “Okay,” Sam sighed. “Hold still, Cas, there’s gonna be a lot of pressure on your neck.”

                “I trust you, Sam,” Castiel said. Dean took one hand away from the nape of Castiel’s neck and put it on Castiel’s knee. Castiel placed his hand over Dean’s.

                Sam placed the teeth of the bolt cutter against the edge of the collar, just barely making contact. There was a loud crunching sound. John saw a jagged crack at the very top of the collar. Castiel exhaled shakily.

                “Doing great Cas,” Sam said. “Nearly got it.” Sam put the teeth farther down, inside the original crack and pressed the handles together again, grinding his jaw as he did so. There was another horrid crack, like glass being run over. Castiel gasped again; beads of sweat were forming on his brow.

                “Just one more time, I promise,” Sam said. He went to work at once, leaving no time for recovering, and slid the teeth of the bolt cutters back down into the crack and squeezed the handles together, biceps taut.

                The collar fell to the concrete in two pieces. Castiel gasped for air, trembling. He raised his head slightly and shared a look with Dean that John couldn’t interpret. Castiel smiled weakly, and then he fell backwards. Dean and Sam worked in unison again to break his fall and settle him down in the backseat. Castiel’s breathing was even in sleep.

                Dean picked up the collar pieces, knuckles white around them, face beet red. “Fucking piece of shit,” he said, prepared to throw it, but Sam grabbed him by his elbow.

                “Wait,” Sam said. “We can’t just throw that where anyone can find it. Besides, it might be helpful to know how something like that works.”

                Dean growled, but handed the collar over to his brother. Sam stuffed the pieces inside his jacket pocket.

                There was a low light coming from the car. John turned and saw several patches of muted, blue light emanating from Castiel. Around his abdomen, his arms, and face, and lips. It was like the soft glow of a computer, and it made the air around Castiel warm.

                John was frozen in his spot. Humans didn’t glow.

                A human couldn’t have survived those injuries for that length of time.

                “Boys,” John growled. Sam and Dean looked up at him, the color draining from their faces. Their jaws were set hard, but John could see the apprehension in their eyes, the way their pupils shook inside their irises. “What the hell is that?”

                “He’s our friend,” Dean snapped, moving closer to the creature inside the car—because that’s what it was, a creature. Non-human. _A monster._

                “You didn’t tell me your friend wasn’t human.” His voice was toneless, what it needed to be. In this moment, he needed to be leader, a protector, protect his children from whatever this monster was that slept in the backseat of their car. In all his years, he’d never seen anything like that, or markings like the ones engraved on that metal collar.

                Come to think of it, they were several strange things that had happened just in these last few moments. Dean asking the creature about him healing, the creature speaking of his “grace”, whatever that was.

                There was no room for sentimentalism now. There wouldn’t be until his boys were safe.

                “Cas is human,” Dean snapped.

                “Does that look human to you?” John said, pointing at it.

                “He’s human in all the ways that count,” Dean said evenly.

                John’s temples throbbed.

                “Look, Dad,” Sam said, stepping in. He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pulled him back. “We have a lot to explain, I know. We promised we would explain, and we will. But Dean’s right. Castiel is our friend; he’s family to us. You’re right. He’s not human per se…But we’ve learned these last few years, that line between monster and human isn’t so thick. It’s not as black and white as we used to think. There are some humane monsters, and some monstrous humans. Cas is the furthest thing from a monster, ever.”

                John was sure he’d heard this speech a dozen times before. Sam always sympathized with the monsters, even as a child. Sam never understood how disrespectful it was; how he soiled his mother’s memory every time he defended a monster. It was like he didn’t care that she’d been murdered by a monster, and he had no interest in avenging her death.

                But though Sam’s stance and speech was aggravating, it was not surprising.

                Dean…Dean always understood how it was. It was black and white. It was a thick line. You were either a monster, or you were human. None of this shades of gray shit.

                But now Dean was defending a monster. Dean befriended one; had let it near him, near _Sam._ John thought he raised his son better than that.

                So it seemed that he sold his soul and went to Hell, and Dean just completely disregarded everything John ever taught him. It was disrespectful to him and to Mary, and every other poor soul that had their lives stolen by the supernatural.

                “What is it?” John said through gritted teeth. What kind of monster did Dean let near Sam? What kind of monster manipulated his boys into this sort of servitude, where they called it family, where they lost sleep and went hungry in their worry for it, where it was around them nearly twenty-four seven?

                His boys shared a look. Dean swallowed, then turned his head and looked John straight in the eye. A storm was brewing in them. Dean always had a temper and John waited for it to unleash. He could deal with Dean yelling at him, throwing things.

                Instead though, when Dean spoke, it was quiet and his voice shook. John was reminded of those months after Mary’s death, those weeks when Dean suddenly started to speak again, and it was as though he was re-learning the entire process.

                “He’s an angel,” Dean said weakly.

                For a moment, there was the sound of crickets chirping in the night; the creature’s haggard, sore breathing. Dean and Sam bore into him with their waiting gazes.

                “An angel,” John said, tasting the word. It was bitter. It made his teeth ache. John looked away from his sons to the creature. Bathed in blood, wheezing and trembling and glowing that strange, blue light…

                John turned back to face his boys. “There are no such things as angels,” he said evenly. How could his boys to be so stupid as to believe anything this monster told them? It must be a demon of some sort. Granted, John had never seen a demon that glowed; but he’d never seen a demon  like Yellow Eyes before, or one that had pale, pasty eyes like Alastair until he went to Hell. It was more likely that this monster was a type of demon John had never encountered before than that it was an angel.

                “There are,” Sam said. “We were surprised too, but there are angels, and Cas is one of them.”

                “Because he told you, you believe him?”

                “Dad,” Dean said. “We can duke this out later, okay? Can we get back to the motel first and patch him up?”

                Dean didn’t give John an answer to respond; he shoved past John and climbed into the backseat, maneuvering the creature so that its head was laying in Dean’s lap. Dean brushed its hair away from his face. John set his jaw.

                “It’s all part of the story,” Sam said gently, stepping back towards the car.

                “The story you all keep talking about, but won’t actually tell.”

                “We’ll tell you on the way,” Dean snapped. “Can we get a move on, please?” His voice lowered, eyes lingering on the creature. He reached over and slammed the car door shut.

                Sam coughed awkwardly and shuffled to the driver’s door. John begrudgingly got into the passenger seat, but his eyes were glued to the rear view mirror.

                Angels.

                Even if they did exist—and John knew they didn’t—but if they did….well, that thing lying in Dean’s lap had to be the furthest thing from anything angelic or heavenly to ever exist.   

 


	7. Dean

  Sam told most of the story. Every now and then, Dean would interject details glossed over, or information Sam hadn’t been there for and couldn’t tell. Dean told of meeting Castiel, and how he had the same doubts originally.

                “He showed me his wings. Or, like, some projection of them.”

                Dean still remembered that night, and that moment. How seeing those wing shadows against the barn and painted sigils was like getting kicked in the balls, then slapped in the face.

                Sam talked about the Apocalypse, and Michael, and Lucifer. Dean stared out the car window, watched as the nighttime scenery blurred by. He curled his fingers through Cas’s hair when Sam talked about the demon blood and his relationship with Ruby.

                Fuck, he was battered. The wounds were mostly healed by now, but the fact that Cas was sleeping to begin with was bad news. There was the instance when Cas time traveled despite it taking every last ounce of his strength, and he fainted in their motel room and stayed in that bed motionless for two days. And when Cas took Sam’s hell trauma and was comatose for months.

                Granted, Cas wasn’t nowhere near as bad now as he’d been those two times, but it was still disconcerting. Angels weren’t supposed to sleep.

                Cas didn’t even sleep for the enjoyment of it. When Dean and Sam called in for the night, Cas stayed up either in a chair, or the space in the bed next to Dean and he knitted, or read, or…stared at the wall or something. Dean didn’t know what Cas did in that time; he knew for certain that Cas didn’t sleep, though.

                “You let Lucifer loose on the world?” John snarled. Dean’s head snapped up.

                “He didn’t meant to,” Dean said. “It was an accident. We all got played.”

                “I can’t believe this,” John murmured. “Angels are real. Satan is real.” He sighed heavily and leaned back against the chair. “Wait. If those are real, then is God real too?”

                Dean’s eyes flicked to meet Sam’s through the rear view mirror. “Yeah,” Dean swallowed. “God’s real. But he’s a bit of a dick. He doesn’t care.”

                Dean thought of poor Castiel, back when he was still so sure with every iota of his being, scourging the universe for his father, to ask for His help. How Castiel had been utterly devastated when they learned the truth. Cas, looking to the sky, angry tears that would never fall pooling in his eyes.

                _You son of a bitch…I…._

“And what role does…he have to play in all this?” John said lowly.

                Dean gnawed on his lip. This was so important. Cas was his family, but so was his Dad. Dean wanted them to get along. John already didn’t seem to like Cas, and they hadn’t even been officially introduced yet.

                “He helped us save the world.”

                They couldn’t have put Lucifer back in the Cage without Cas’s help; Cas was the one who got rid of Michael long enough for Dean to talk to Sam; a conversation that helped Sam take the reins. Cas had sacrificed himself time and time again to save them, and the world.

                Everything Cas had done, good and bad, had been to save the world.

                But Dean didn’t want to think of those things. All of them made mistakes that year; all of them could have done things differently. Far as Dean was concerned, they were all responsible for Purgatory and the Leviathans. And even if it blew shit in all their faces, Cas opening Purgatory saved the world.

                But Dad didn’t need to know about those things. There was no reason for Dad to ever know.

                “It’s true,” Sam said. “Cas rebelled against Heaven because he didn’t want the world to be destroyed.”

                “So he’s a fallen angel,” John said slowly, nearly spelling out each word.

                “Yeah,” Dean said gruffly. He didn’t want to think about that either. “He fell so he could help us save the world.”

                “Huh,” John said. There was a note of _something_ lingering in that one word. John Winchester was never impressed, Dean knew that well enough. John always thought there was room for improvement, or that something could have been done better, faster, cleaner. John Winchester did not get impressed, but sometimes he did come close. Dean thought he heard that in his father’s voice.

                Dean looked back to Sam. Sam shrugged; something warm bloomed inside Dean’s chest though, and he smiled lightly despite himself. Really, there were more reasons for Cas and his Dad to get along than not. Military, no-nonsense guys, with the determination to finish a job once it’d been started.

                “You know Dad,” Dean said, “Cas was like, a general, in his angel army. Full on boss.”

                “Really,” and now there was genuine interest in his Dad’s voice. Dean grinned brighter. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to suck his dad in, it was meeting with other military men. Dean remembered sitting in bars past last call with a book in his lap while Dad shared Vietnam stories with some other veteran.

                Maybe it was because sharing war stories was the closest John Winchester could ever get back to his old life, the one he had before demons and vampires and werewolves reared their ugly heads in and knocked him out.

                Cas had to be the best of both worlds, surely. Cas revered everything that had to do with humanity, and John enjoyed little more than listening to and sharing his own war stories.

                Sam pulled into the parking lot of the motel. The neon vacancy flickered harsh against the nighttime sky. Sam shut the engine off.

                “Yeah,” Dean said. “Cas has been fighting wars against demons since, like, literal forever.” Dean licked his lips. “He was the one who saved me from Hell.”

                That was the part of the story they hadn’t gotten to just yet. Dean’s breath rattled inside his chest.

                ” _What?”_ John snapped. He turned around against the seat, facing Dean. His eyes burned.

                Dean winched. Maybe he should have waited until they were actually inside the room to broach this topic. He smiled sheepishly.

                “Dean,” John said harsh and low; his tone calling for no argument whatsoever. “Why were you in Hell?”

                “I had to save Sam,” Dean said.

                Castiel moaned suddenly, capturing everyone’s attention. The last of his grace light finally died away and his eyes fluttered open.

                “Hey,” Dean said, clearing his burning throat. “How’re you feeling?”

                “Fine,” Cas mumbled.

                “Good,” Dean said. He cleared his throat again. John’s eyes were piercing into his skin. Dean swallowed. There was no avoiding it. It was just going to need to be done.

                “Cas, I want you to meet my dad.”

\--

                The air inside the motel was thick and warm. Cas’s clothes were still saturated in blood, though his coat hung off Dean’s arm; and they  looked beyond salvageable. Dean wanted Cas to change first, but once Cas had been told of John Winchester’s sudden appearance, he refused to listen to anything else.

                Right now, Dean and Sam stood awkwardly by the door. John sat down on the far bed. Cas knelt in front of him, studying him. Though Cas’s back was facing him, Dean knew the expressions he’d be wearing. The pinched eyebrows, tilted head. John’s gaze was locked onto Cas, that angry, studious glare that had become synonymous with Dean’s childhood. 

                Suddenly, Cas reached out and grabbed John’s face with his hands. John jerked in surprise and snarled a “What the hell are you—“

                “Shh,” Cas said, readjusting his grip, pulling John’s face forward.

                Ten tense seconds ticked by.

                Cas released his grip and turned to face Sam and Dean. “He is your father,” Cas said.

                Dean released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

                “I thought we had already established that,” John said.

                “Could angels have done this?” Dean asked, ignoring his dad.

                “It’s possible,” Cas said.

                “But…?” Sam asked.

                “But, they would not do it without reason. I don’t know why any angel would want your father alive again.”

                Cas looked over his shoulder back to John.

                “I don’t know why you’re staring at me,” John said. “I don’t know any more than you do.”

                “You’re not feeling ill? Hearing things, seeing things?”

                “No,” John said impatiently, after a brief pause. His jaw clenched tightly. “I feel no different than I did back before when I was alive.”

                “What do you remember?”

                John groaned. “The hospital. The hellhound—“

                “Do you remember Hell?”

                “Of course I remember Hell!”

                Dean winced. He thought of lightless pits, of hanging upside down, Alastair waving a bloodied blade in front of his face, his tongue against Dean’s ear.

                “That ain’t the kind of thing you just forget,” John said quietly. His eyes traveled to Dean. “I’ve told you everything I know. It’s your turn now. Why were you in Hell?”

                “Yellow Eyes killed Sam,” Dean said. His tongue felt fat in his mouth. Sam shifted beside him, offering a hand of support than Dean brushed away. John’s eyes moved to Sam. Cas looked to the ugly carpet. “I made a demon deal to save him. And you know those demons. They always collect.”

                John was silent for a moment. His jaw clenched. “And you,” he said to Cas. “Saved my boy why?”

                “God commanded it. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.”

                “You thought,” John said dryly.

                “The angels needed me to be Michael’s vessel for the Apocalypse,” Dean said. “That’s why they laid siege.”

                “Why was it you that saved him,” John said to Cas, “and not some other ‘angel’?”

                “I reached Dean first.”

                And wasn’t that scary to think about; that it was just by happenstance Cas was the one to pull Dean from Hell. He could’ve gotten stuck with Uriel, or Zachariah, or any of the other hundreds of dicks with wings, but instead he got saved by Cas.

                Dean didn’t want to think about it any other way.

                “So the angels wanted the Apocalypse. And you didn’t. Why?”

                “’Cause Cas is different,” Dean said.

                John clicked his tongue and went back to eyeing Cas. Cas, who was still coated in blood. “I suppose you are,” John said softly.

                Dean couldn’t help the smile that came to his face. Okay, so things had started off tense, but it looked like they were heading in the right direction.

                But Cas really need to shower, or mojo himself clean, because it was painful to look at him. The wounds were healed and gone, but the bright, red blood was just a horrid reminder to Dean of what Cas had endured.

                “Great,” Dean said, clapping his hands. “We’ll answer any other questions you might have. Things are pretty weird for all of us right now, I think. Cas, you wanna mojo yourself clean?”

                Cas looked down at himself, peeling the dark jacket away from the once white undershirt. “Oh,” he said. “I’m dirty.”

                Sam smacked his lips. “’Dirty’ isn’t the word I’d use.”

                “Can you clean your clothes too, or do you need to borrow some?”

                Cas looked back down at himself. “I think I can clean them.”

                “Good,” Dean said.

                 Cas disappeared into the bathroom. Soon, running water could be heard.

                The silence that fell over was suffocating. After a few seconds, John pushed himself up and walked over to Dean. Dean swallowed.

                John clapped Dean on his shoulder. “You’ve done good, boy,” he said softly. His eyes glimmered and there was a ghost of a smile across his lips. Dean felt like he’d swallowed a rock.

                “Thank you, sir,” was all he could make himself say.

                “He’s a bit of weirdo isn’t he?”

                “Yeah,” Dean licked his lips. “But it’s uh, a good weird, you know?”

                “I suppose.”

                “So Dad,” Sam said. “The case here is closed. What are you going to do now?”

                “What do you mean? I’m staying with you boys.”

                “You are?” Dean and Sam said simultaneously.

                “The Winchester men back together again, huh? Those monsters out there don’t stand a hell of a chance, do they?”

                “You still want to hunt?” Dean asked.

                “What else would I do?”

                “I don’t know,” Dean shrugged. “Retire? Buy a condo in Florida.” Dean grinned, but it fell once he saw his dad’s unamused glare.

                “You know the only retirement for hunters is death—and apparently even that’s not enough sometimes. We have a job to do Dean. It ain’t a pretty job, but someone’s gotta do it. And I rather it’d be me than some poor shmuck that has no clue what they’re doing. It’ll be like old times. Like nothing ever changed.”

                Dean couldn’t help it. The idea was pleasant. Dean, Sam, Cas and Dad, on the road, hunting…it sounded nice. The closest to an apple pie life Dean could ever get. His family all together.

                Sam huffed softly. “Sounds great,” he said. “Dad, you wanna book an extra room for you? We should all catch a few hours before we hit the road again.”

                Dean hadn’t realized what the time was until Sam mentioned it. He looked over at the clock and saw that it was just after three in the morning. Suddenly his limbs felt full of lead, and it was a struggle just to hold his head up. His eyelids were heavy and dark, fuzzy splotches were spotting his vision. He noticed for the first time to dark, heavy bags underneath Sam’s eyes and the rat’s nest of his hair. He wondered how bad he looked. It had been a long couple of days, and the bed looked to be the softest, comfiest thing Dean had ever laid eyes on, despite the questionable stains and visible bed springs.

                The sound of running water stopped and moments later Cas came out, spotless and fully dressed, minus the tan overcoat Dean still had in his hands. Cas smiled sheepishly and walked over; Dean handed him the coat and Cas took it gingerly, their fingers barely brushing.

                “Looking good,” Dean grinned.

                Cas looked down at the coat and blue light spread from his fingertips, in spider web like patterns, over and under arching the fabric. The light sizzled for few heavy moments, and then it dissipated and the coat was clean as ever. Cas worked his arms through and pulled it on.

                “It feels pleasant to be clean,” Cas said.

                “So, Cas,” Sam said suddenly. “I was thinking, Dean and Dad can have this room and you and me can grab another. We all need to catch a few hours before we hit the road again.”

                “Dad can have his own room if he wants,” Dean said.

                “The three of you would share this room?” John said. “What about you?” He asked Cas. “Where would you sleep?”

                “I don’t sleep,” Cas said.

                John hummed lowly.

                “Well, maybe I want a break from sharing with Dean,” Sam insisted. “A guy can only take your obnoxious snoring for so many years.”

                “That’s fine with me, Dean,” John said. “Your brother and the angel can spend a night together.”

                “I mean, if you’re sure,” Dean said, looking between the three of them. He couldn’t understand why Dad wouldn’t jump on the offer to have his own room. Hell, Dean would’ve killed to have his own room back when he was a kid, and the only reason he and Sam didn’t split us now was just out of a habit. Dean needed someone’s snoring as white noise to fall asleep to.

                But anxiety also creeped up his spine and neck at the thought of not having Cas right next to him. Ever since they busted out of Purgatory, Cas had sat next to Dean while Dean slept, and he slept better because of it. He probably slept better now than he ever had, and he had to acknowledge that Cas’s presence was responsible. Whether Cas used his mojo to lull Dean to sleep and keep his nightmares away, or it was just a deeper part of Dean know someone was up and keeping watch, someone that would protect them at all costs, or a combination of the two…Dean slept good.

                He didn’t understand why Sam was being so stubborn. Giving Dad his own room was the easiest solution. Dean could still have Sam’s snoring and Cas’s presence, and Dad wouldn’t be bothered by any of it because he wouldn’t be there. And after not sleeping for nearly three days, because _some people_ couldn’t not get jumped during a hunt and Dean was up every moment looking for their dumb ass, he desperately needed that good sleep that came with Cas.

                But if Sam wanted a break, Dean couldn’t bunk him with Dad. Dean didn’t trust the two of them to be alone and not go for each other’s throats after two minutes.

                It was just one more night, Dean thought. One more night without Cas; and now that he knew Cas was okay and safe, maybe he could sleep tonight, at least a little. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

                Dean swallowed. “That okay with you, Cas?”

                “I’ll go with Sam if you think that’s best.”

                “It’s not about that,” Dean said. God, he hated the tone in Cas’s voice, like Dean was kicking him out. He was going to say more, that it wasn’t personal, but John interrupted.

                “Good then. Dean and I will stay here. You two go ahead and book another room. Sam, try and get some sleep. You look like you really need it.”

                “No shit,” Sam said with a small laugh. He bent down and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder.  “Okay, Cas, let’s go.”

                Cas looked over at John for a moment; then he put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Sleep well, Dean,” he said. He knelt down and pulled his own backpack from underneath the bed, and walked towards the door following Sam.

                “Yeah, you too,” Dean said, and then mentally smacked himself right as the door closed behind Cas.

                It was just him and John then. The silence had weight to it. Dean cleared his throat and toed his shoes off. “Well, I’m beat,” he said and flopped down onto the bed, the rusty springs squeaking.

                He heard John lay down on his own bed. The lights were turned off and it became so dark Dean couldn’t see anything.

                He shut his eyes and tried to even out his breathing.

 


	8. Sam

Sam was able to get him and Cas a room just down the hall from John and Dean. It looked exactly the same on the inside, only there seemed to be more suspicious stains on the carpet.

                God, Sam hated living on the road sometimes.

                “I’m gonna shower,” Sam said, setting his bag on the bed closest to the door. Cas set up on the second bed.

                “Can I borrow your laptop?”

                “Knock yourself out,” Sam said, zipping open his bag. He pulled out his computer and handed it to Cas, who took it delicately. Cas sat cross legged on his bed and while the computer booted up, he dug through his bag. Sam heard the familiar clacking of the knitting needles as he walked into the bathroom and he couldn’t help the soft smile that came to his lips.

                The room may been disgusting, but the water was gloriously hot and the pressure incredible. The tension melted out of Sam’s muscles as the water cascaded down his back. He inhaled deeply, the steam cleaning out his sinuses.

                He couldn’t keep his thoughts away from his dad. He trusted Cas’s judgement that it was actually John Winchester—but if not even Cas was positive what had brought John back, Sam knew he had reason to be worried. Cas could smell corpses and determine if the deceased had ever done drugs, any diseases they had a history of, what kind of infection they had before they died…It was all really cool, and a little gross sometimes, but Cas could find out nonetheless. The fact that he couldn’t tell what had brought Dad back was frightening.

                Was this a good thing? He couldn’t say. So much had happened since John died, and Dean and Sam had changed in so many ways. They weren’t same the people they had been when John died. The world wasn’t even the same world.

                At least John took the whole angel thing better than Sam expected. John had still eyed Cas suspiciously, tracking his every movement like a wounded animal—but at least he accepted the fact that Cas was part of their family now. Or, he seemed to have. He didn’t say anything negative about Cas, and that was better than anything Sam had expected. The whole “if it’s not human, it’s a monster” conversation they had quickly after finding Cas, Sam had been prepared for. It was something he grew up with his entire life. But it ended up being a lot shorter than Sam thought it would be, and he was thankful.

                It would take a few days for Dad to come around to Cas fully, Sam knew. But he was already taking the entire better than Sam had given him credit for.

                Sam used the tiny shampoo bottles to wash his hair, and he focused heavily on scratching his scalp and washing out the dirt and sweat he had accumulated throughout the last few days. After washing it out of his hair, he stayed in the shower until his fingers began to turn pruney, and then he left. The air was cold against his skin and he quickly wrapped himself in a towel and dried off.

                He walked into the room with the towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

                Cas was still sitting on the bed,  gazing at the computer off to his right. His hands worked swiftly, yet still held the knitting needles delicately as he worked through the stitches effortlessly, not once taking his eyes away from the screen. He was so enamored in his work, Sam felt no shame in changing into his PJs right there. Not that Cas would care even if he did notice, but Sam wanted to maintain at least some modesty with an angel.

                “What are you working on, Cas?” Sam asked, stepping into his boxers. He grabbed the softest T-shirt he owned and pulled it over his head.

                “SoccerMom69 posted a wonderful pattern for a sweater,” Cas said, working the track pad. “It’s going to be winter soon. You and Dean need more sweaters. It would save you from having to wear so many shirts at once.”

                Sam huffed a little. Cas had complained about running out of ideas for his knitting projects. Sam had showed him Pinterest partly as a joke, but Cas took to it like a fish to water, and it was endearing. The fact it irritated the holy hell out of Dean was just an extra bonus.

                Sam picked up his jacket off the bed and slung it to the ground. It hit the carpet with a loud thwack and Sam frowned, staring at the two metal pieces that lay next to it. Sam bent down and picked up the pieces of the collar, running his thumbs over the engravings as he turned it in his hands, inspecting each one. One he recognized as Cas’s name in Enochian, but the others were completely foreign to him. He glanced up at Cas. Cas was still engrossed in his work, needles clacking together quietly. The yarn he was using was a thick, woolen green. Sam could see the beginnings of one sleeve.

                He looked back down at the collar and swallowed. How horrible. How simple, it seemed. Sam had seen Cas take bullet and stab wounds to the chest, has seen Cas with broken bones and missing teeth, watched Cas carve a banishing sigil into his own chest with a rusty box cutter, go from vomiting blood and falling unconscious to up and walking straight…Cas always had the aura about him, as though he were untouchable. That nothing could hurt him.

                Sam inhaled through his nose. But Cas _could_ be hurt. It didn’t take guns, or knives, or fists, though. Strange symbols carved in a language Sam couldn’t even begin to understand could hurt Cas.

                Sam could understand why Dean had been quick to try and get rid of the stupid thing. It had been a tool of the demons who hurt Cas; it could hurt Cas. But that’s why they had to keep it. Keep it out of the wrong hands. Keep it so they could study it, and maybe find a work around, or a way to reverse engineer it.

                Sam walked towards Cas and held out the two pieces. Cas made three stitches, before Sam cleared his throat and Cas looked up.

                “Can you tell me what these symbols mean?” He said softly.

                Cas put his needles to the side and gently took the pieces of the collar from Sam’s hand. Cas turned it over in his hands. He pointed at one curving symbol that stretched nearly half the circumference.

                “This one means, ‘halt’, or….’cease’.” He turned it around in his hands and went to the other large symbol. Cas squinted and brought the piece up to his eyes. “There’s not a very good translation for this one. Essentially, I suppose it means ‘all that you are’. ‘All that you possess’?” Cas frowned. He looked up at Sam. “Enochian is a very flowery language, you know.”

                Sam huffed softly. “That’s your name on it. Does it need a name to work?”

                “To work, no. I think my name is what prevented me from being able to take it off, though.”

                “Huh,” Sam said. “I guess that’s good to know for later. Would it work on demons, you think?”

                “If you had their true name, theoretically.” Cas passed the pieces back to Sam. Suddenly they felt much heavier than they had earlier. Sam realized suddenly the trust Cas was placing in him; Cas had just surrendered something that could be used to hurt him. Information that could hurt him. And he gave it away willingly, because Sam had asked.

                “You should rest, Sam,” Cas said, picking up his knitting needles. “I imagine it has been a very stressful day for you.”

                Sam snorted. “That’s an understatement.” He sobered and watched Cas make more stitches, watched as the yarn turned into something. “You know, I never got along with my dad.”

                “His presence unnerves you.”

                “Yeah. And, he…he says it’s gonna be different. He says he knows what he did wrong and that its gonna be different now, but…”

                “But?” Cas was looking up at him, with the same intensity he always looked at Dean. Sam didn’t know how Dean could stand it. He felt like he had no secrets, like Cas was examining and judging every cell in his makeup. There was nothing he could hide from Castiel.

                “But,” Sam said slowly. “I don’t know if I can believe him.”

                “He’s hurt you,” Cas said. “You and Dean.”

                “Yeah,” Sam said. Another understatement; and yet, it eloquently explained exactly how Sam felt.

                “Your father was put into a perilous situation. He responded the only way he knew how. It does not excuse his actions, but….good intentions should count for something, shouldn’t they?”

                Sam thought he heard his heart actually break. “Cas…”

                “I’ve hurt you and Dean. You, especially. And yet, you’ve found it in your heart to forgive me.”

                “That…it’s not the same, Cas. You needed us and we…” They told him no, they wouldn’t help him, not with the life or death stakes of the entire universe, because they thought they knew better about an angel war than the actual angels who were fighting in it.

                “Your capacity to forgive,” Cas continued. He no longer met Sam’s eyes, instead focused completely on his knitting, “astounds me, as much as it inspires me. You and Dean have chosen to trust me again, despite me having given you every reason not to. Can’t you at least give your father an opportunity to prove himself?”

                Sam sighed. “I want to. I know I should. I just…He should’ve been there from the beginning. I don’t know.”  
                “You need to rest. We can discuss this later, if you wish. But the human body needs at least seven hours of sleep to properly function, and I think I can safely assume that you have not had that in many days.”

                “We were a little busy looking for your dumb ass,” Sam said softly. Cas smiled gently in return, the closest he ever got to actually smiling.

                Cas put his materials to the side and stood. “Lay on the bed,” he said, raising two fingers.

                “No, Cas,” Sam said. “Save it for emergencies.”

                Cas’s brows furrowed. “This is an emergency. You’re anxious. You need to sleep. You’ll need assistance to sleep.”

                Sam was so exhausted his bones were aching, and Cas had that _look_ in his eyes, like a puppy left out in the rain.

                “Just…enough to relax me,” Sam conceded. “Don’t knock me out.”

                He laid down on the bed, curled on his side. Cas’s fingers were feather light against his temple and he was filled with a gentle coldness, like diving into a pool on a boiling summer afternoon. His temples were heavy and impossible to keep open.

                “Good night, Sam,” he heard Cas say before the darkness edged around Sam’s vision and took over.


	9. Dean

Dean was awake when John’s snoring finally stopped. John groaned and stretched, and Dean could hear his father’s stiff joints crack, the fatigued yawn.

                Dean’s head pounded. His mouth was dry. He hadn’t slept at all, and his eyes hurt from being awake so long. It had been a long time since he was this bone-deep exhausted. Just the thought of needing to leave bed and stand and be awake was mentally taxing.

                John stood and walked towards Dean. He patted Dean’s ankles with a little more force than necessary.

                “Wake up, Dean,” he said. Dean moaned and turned his face into the pillow. It smelled like mothballs and it made something deep inside his stomach curl, but it was familiar nonetheless. It was his childhood, it was every memory of his father, good and bad.

                “We need to do errands,” John said, flipping on the overhead light. It assaulted Dean’s sore eyes even through the pillow and Dean’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He exhaled forlornly through his nose and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

                “I need clothes,” John said. “And a cell phone. New IDs, the works. We need to get it all ASAP too, so I can join you and your brother back into the hunting game.”

                Dean nodded, though he was only half listening. His eyes slide over to the  clock, and his stomach winched when he saw that it was nearly noon. He was used to working all hours of the nights, sleeping whenever he could catch it, so he was pretty sure he had no circadian rhythm to speak of, but it still was wrong to be getting up at this hour when he was running on almost zero sleep for three days now.

                He felt weak, pathetic, even. He shouldn’t need Cas pressed against him to sleep, but he did. He thought he could be okay without Cas, but his mind wouldn’t stop, kept running eighty miles an hour on ‘what ifs’ and ‘how comes’, even though he knew Cas and Sam were okay, and that they would continue to be okay. There was no one Dean trusted with Sam’s life more than Cas; not even their dad.

                Especially not their dad, Dean amended, as he looked at his father standing near the foot of his bed. Dean groaned again and forced himself into a sitting position.

                He hoped Sam at least got some sleep. 

                Dean stood up and pushed his way to the bathroom. He pissed and rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension built up in them. This was going to be another miserable day.

                He cleaned up and exited the bathroom to see Sam, Cas, and John all in their room. Cas’s gaze darkened when it met Dean’s, his mouth setting into a thin line.

                “Hey, guys,” Dean said, plastering on a fake smile.

                “You look terrible,” Cas said.

                Dean snorted. “Thanks, Cas.”

                “Did you sleep at all?” Sam asked.

                “Yeah, a little,” Dean lied. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We got a lot to do today. Dad needs some new threads and a hunting bag, Cas needs a new phone for the thousandth fucking time—“

                “None of those times my phone was damaged were my fault,” Cas said.

                Dean huffed. “Maybe we’ll just put a GPS in your shoes, save me from pulling out my hair next time.” He meant it as a joke, but then he gnawed on his lip as he considered. Could he do that? He’d have to ask Charlie. Surely, there was some kind of technology out there that they could use…

                “Well, we better get started then,” Sam said. “I think I’m gonna catch a disease just breathing in this air.”

                “Stop being so melodramatic, Sam,” John said sternly.

                Dean huffed a little, but he felt jittery. Exhausted or not, they had a job to do. Granted, it wasn’t their usual gig, but Dean could only imagine what kind of terrors they’d find in taking their dad _clothes shopping._ What kind of horrors awaited in having to be stuck in the car with Sam and his dad. He almost preferred a vampire.

                Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I’m driving.”

                “Like hell you are,” Dean muttered. Sam gave him a pointed look.

                “You can barely keep your eyes open. No way in hell am I trusting you to drive.”

                Dean opened his mouth to argue, but yawned instead. He scowled. “Fine,” he said. “But you get one scratch on her—“

                “I’ll be buffing it out with my tongue,” Sam said. “Yeah, Dean, I know the drill. Give me the keys all ready.”

                --

                Dean jolted, turning slightly and bumping his knee. He cracked his eyes open. The world was bleary, just colors, and there was noise, a rumbling and voices.

                Something wrapped around his hand and squeezed. Dean instinctively squeezed back.

                The world came into focus. Dean saw out the windshield of the Impala, the passing trees, and asphalt. He heard Sam and John’s voices from the front bench.

                Dean turned his head. Cas was sitting next to him. It was Cas’s hand wrapped around Dean’s.

                “Did you put me to sleep?” Dean said. He cleared his throat.

                “You needed it,” Cas said.

                Dean groaned. “Damn it, Cas, we talked about this!”

                John turned around from the front seat. “Talked about what?”

                “Wasting his friggin’ angel mojo to drug me!”

                “It’s not a waste if it makes you feel better,” Cas said. “Besides, I did it for Sam last night, and he slept soundly.”

                “What?” Dean looked towards the front of the car and met Sam’s guilty eyes through the rearview mirror. “Sam, why would you let him do that?”

                “Cas—“ Sam snapped. “You said you would just relax me!”

                “I relaxed you by putting you to sleep.”

                “Oh my god,” Dean said, resting his head back against the headrest. Cas’s thumb circled over the backside of Dean’s hand.

                “I’m sorry,” Cas whispered, so soft that only Dean heard him. “You’re upset.”

                “Yeah, I’m upset,” Dean resisted the urge to scream. He kept his voice hoarse and stern. “When are you going to start looking after yourself?”

                Cas didn’t respond. Dean wanted to yell at him some more, but instead he just sighed and rubbed his eyes. The worst part of it was, he did feel better. Better than he had in the last few days; and even if he only actually got a small amount of sleep, it was still more than he had in days. The aches in his joints were dulled, his mouth was no longer dry, his head wasn’t pounding.

                They all sat in silence for a few moments.

                “So,” John said, “what else can you do with your…’angel mojo’?”

                “A variety of things,” Cas said.

                 “Like?”

                 “Well,” Cas peeled his hand away from Dean’s to stare at it. “I’m not as strong as I once was. Certain things I can no longer do, such as time travel, or fly long distances—“

                “I asked what _could_ you do.”

                  “Oh,” Cas said. “I can heal most injuries and diseases.”

                 “Can you kill with it?”

                  “Yes,” Cas said.

                   Dean snorted. “Bit of an understatement,” he said. “You should see him take on a vamp, or a werewolf, Dad. Total badass.”

                 John hummed, and Sam pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot.

                 “Just get the essentials,” John said.  “I want to get back on the road soon as possible, start looking for hunts.”

                 Dean was already preparing a mental checklist of what they needed. Two phones, for Dad and Cas, toothbrushes, toothpaste, clothes and a duffel bag for Dad.

                  Of course, Wal-Mart was not Hell, and Dean would be lying if he ever tried to compare shopping inside a Wal-Mart to going through Hell, but…it was a close second.

                  It was crowded. It smelled. Somewhere in the back section, a kid was screaming his head off, and the noise made Dean’s teeth ache.

               In and out, Dean reminded himself, and he made it his personal mission. Without much regard to what he was actually picking out, the four of them made it in and out within twenty minutes, having gotten everything they needed for John.

               In the backseat of the car, Dean struggled to open a blister package with his teeth. After two minutes, Cas took it from him and zapped his new pay-as-you-go phone out of the packaging.

                “You couldn’t have done that earlier?” Dean snapped.

               “I didn’t want to threaten your masculinity.”

                 “Asshole,” Dean said, shoving Cas gently. He took the phone from Cas and set it up, installing his and Sam’s numbers in right away. “Don’t lose this one,” he said.

                “I don’t do it on purpose,” Cas mumbled, taking the phone from Dean.

               “Yeah, well,” Dean curled his lip. “Don’t do it.”

                 “Very eloquent, Dean,” Sam said.

             “Shut up,” Dean said. “Have you guys found a case yet, or are we just driving around for fun?”

              “Dad’s looking.”

             “I don’t understand how this works,” John said. He was pounding on the screen of his phone. “No, no—why did the screen turn black?”

             “You probably locked it,” Sam said.

              “It’s a phone,” John snapped. “There’s nothing on it to lock!”  
               

             “God, he’s worse than you,” Dean said to Cas. He reached over the seat and took the phone from his dad. There were going to have to hold a remedial class later—the car was not the place to do it—but Dean was itching just like John to get back into the game and find a hunt.

            He opened the news app and started searching for mysterious deaths.

             He searched for about ten minutes, when he found something.

           “Look at this,” he said to Cas. Cas read through the article, eyes scanning with dark intensity.

           “What is it?” John asked.

           “Sounds like a djinn,” Dean said. “Two people disappeared from a podunk town in Tennessee. Just, vanished over the course of a week. Nothing else, though.”

           “Well, I guess we don’t have anything better to go search for,” Sam said. “What do you think, Dad? You’re good to take on a djinn?”                

            John harrumphed.

           “I’m taking that as a yes, then,” Sam said. He pulled onto the Interstate and began to head south.

            Sam turned on the radio, the car filled rumbled with the heavy bass of _AC/DC_. John laughed gently.

           “You still have all my old tapes?”

            Sam snorted. “Dean’ll kill me before he gets rid of these things.”

           “Don’t you forget it,” Dean said. These tapes, his music, were the soundtrack of his childhood. When they spent days, sometimes weeks, riding the car from town to town, the music would be the only thing that passed between them. It filled the silences; and seeing his dad drum his fingers along on top of the steering wheel were some of the few times Dean could ever remember seeing his dad smile.

           The music relaxed Dean too, despite it being loud and rough. It wasn’t any of Sam’s classical shit—this music had real soul, real life behind it. Dean grinned. This was looking up, actually. They had a hunt now, a destination, a plan. The good old days could be had again.

          Dean rested his head on Cas’s shoulder, scooting so that his side was pressed against Cas’s. Cas reached behind Dean and threaded his fingers through Dean’s hair. Dean could feel it, the cool of his grace, spilling into his scalp and running through his blood. He wanted to scream at Cas, to cut it out, but…he was happy, for once. Relaxed, and for the first time in a long time, there wasn’t an immediate emergency they had to be on the lookout for.

        Dean slept.


	10. John

John couldn’t believe the sight. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the horrible image, but it was as though he was entranced. He couldn’t look away, at his oldest son snoozing and drooling on the ‘angel’ in the backseat—and the ‘angel’ just sat there, fingers moving through Dean’s hair. John saw earlier a blue glow to its fingertips; the same glow that had covered nearly every inch of its body when his boys found it on that sidewalk.

John knew he needed to have a serious discussion with his boys about the creature masquerading as an angel, but he also knew it wouldn’t do any good. Whatever spell or trap the creature had cast on his boys was horrendously strong, and John didn’t know what he could do to break it. He had never seen this kind of magic before.

No, talking would do no good. John would have to deal with this by himself. It was only fair after all; all that his boys had endured on their own, demons and Apocalypses, and death, John could stand on his own two feet and take down this insidious beast that had slunk its way into his boys’ fragile hearts and minds. Dean, especially, seemed trapped under this beast’s magic. He called it family, and John knew how important that was to Dean, knew he wouldn’t just consider anyone family.

Still, it wasn’t that surprising that Dean could fall underneath a spell like this. Dean was great with a shotgun, and there was no one John trusted more to watch his back, but John knew the truth. Dean was just not that bright. Sam got the brains, Dean got the brawns. That was just the way things worked out sometimes. And there was never anything wrong with that. Some cases needed muscle, and some jobs needed someone on the front lines doing the dirty work.

The poor boy hadn’t even been able to finish high school. How was he supposed to know he was being tricked by some sort of rare demon not even John had seen before? So, Dean. While it was a pity, it was not a surprise that he would fall victim to something heinous like this.

Sam, though. Sam was smart, resourceful. He looked at things from all sorts of different angles before he took a side. And this creature had managed to trick Sam too. That was what told John that this monster was dangerous. Smart, powerful. And it had his poor boys wrapped around his finger. They didn’t even know what kind of trouble they were in.

This thing was able to put them to sleep with a touch of a finger. It could kill with just as much too, but they trusted it, kept it with them.

It was looking down on Dean, now, with an odd expression on its face. Something soft and gentle, but there was a greater sternness underneath it.

If this was some sort of demon, it could kill them all right now. John’s eyes slide quickly to the speedometer; Sam was pushing past seventy miles an hour. John’s eyes returned to the rear view mirror, watching the creature. Dean was sleeping by its influence, helpless. They were all helpless. If this thing chose to attack, there was nothing they could do, nowhere they could go unless they wanted to jump out of a moving car going as fast as they were.

John didn’t want to die. He just got his boys back, back from the claws of Hell and demons. His wife was murdered and his life ruined because of demons. He wasn’t going to just sit back and let them do it again.

John didn’t want to believe in angels. His boys seemed convinced they existed, but John didn’t want to be. If they were real, where were they? Mary used to talk of angels all the time, and John had hated it then, hated how she filled Dean’s head with that nonsense.

But if they were real, John knew one thing for certain. That thing in the backseat was not an angel.

\--

                They pulled into Pigeon Ford, Tennessee late that night. Eight straight hours in the car had made John’s back sore, and his stomach ached in hunger. They found a 24-hour diner and stopped to have an incredibly later dinner. Only one other booth was occupied by two teenagers, a boy and a girl, and they were leaning over their table, giggling at each other as they passed a milkshake back and forth.

                John smiled lightly. It was sweet, young, innocent love. It reminded John of when he had first dated Mary.

                They slide into a booth tucked against the corner, John sitting next to Sam, the angel and Dean sitting across. Soon, a waitress came and took their order. John and Dean each went for a bacon cheeseburger, while Sam got some sort of chicken wrap.

                “And what can I get for you, sweetie?” She asked the angel.

                “Coffee, please.”

                She hummed a little. “Coffee this late? Guess you’re not going to bed anytime soon.”

                “I don’t sleep,” the angel said.

                The waitress grinned. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with your ten o clock coffee, would it?”

                The angel stared at her. She cleared her throat and tucked her pen behind her ear. “I’ll have that out in a jiffy,” she said, her heels clacking on the linoleum.

                Sam and Dean shared a look with each other and broke out laughing.

                “What’s funny?” the angel asked.

                “She was flirting with you, Cas,” Sam said.

                “She was?” the angel turned his head in the direction the waitress left.

                “She didn’t call any of us ‘ _sweetie’,_ ” Dean said.

                “Dean’s just jealous,” Sam said. “Don’t take it too personally, Cas.”

                Watching the interactions they shared only infuriated John. How could they not see it? This thing had them hook, line and sinker, had them convinced it was a fool, as though it didn’t know exactly what it was doing. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to watch the monster play his boys right in front of John’s eyes.

                “Dean,” he said, stern. “Can you tell us more about the case?”

                Dean shrugged. “I mean, not really. Told you all the article had.”

                Just then the waitress came by with their food. She began to sit their meals down. As she leaned over the table to reach back towards Sam and the angel, her breasts pushed out of her shirt.

                “And one coffee,” she said, winking. The angel’s face drained of all color, but Sam and Dean’s grew red and John could tell they were trying to hold back laughter.

                John couldn’t stand to watch this either. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. Sam and Dean’s little juvenile giggle fest ceased to a halt. “Have you heard about any disappearances around here?”  
               

                 Her lips puckered and she sighed. “Yeah. Small town like this, word gets around pretty fast. Not that anyone knows much, mind you.”

                “Well, what do you know?” Sam asked.

                “Um, same as you, I suppose. Two people just…vanished, almost into thin air it seems.”

                “Sounds scary,” Dean said, wiping a drip of sauce off his plate and licking it off his finger. “What do the police think happen?”

                She shrugged. “People come, people leave. We’re not a very exciting town, in case you haven’t noticed. The police think they got bored and left.”

                “Do you think that?” Sam asked.

                “Honey, if I could, I’d pack up and be outta here in a heartbeat,” she said with a smile. “I’ll leave you to your meal.” She walked away to tend to the teenagers across the diner.

                “What do you think?” Sam asked. “Cas?”

                The angel ripped open a packet of sugar and spilled it into his coffee. He grabbed two more and did the same, while responding, “We need more information.”

                “We should find the families,” Dean said. “If these people were taken by a djinn, it should’ve been sudden. If they just skipped town, the families have to know something, right? People who are planning on running away gotta be acting weird before they leave.”

                “I’ll look tonight,” Sam said. “You up for doing interviews, Dad?”

                John bit into his burger. It was a bit of a stupid question, was he ‘up’ for doing interviews. What did it matter? Interviews needed to be done. That was it. “It’s like riding a bike,” he said instead.

                “But we can’t all go doing interviews. Four people is way too much,” Sam said.

                “You and Dad go,” Dean said, mouth full. He wiped his chin on his sleeve. Sam sighed at the sight. “Cas and I will look around town, see if there’s anywhere a djinn might be stashing vics.”

                John tightened his jaw. He watched the angel take a tentative sip of the coffee. He didn’t want either of his boys alone with it. It had been alone with Sam last night; there within inches of Sam at his most vulnerable, in his sleep. It could have done god knows what to him, and Sam would have been helpless, Sam would have invited whatever destruction the monster carried behind him.

                He wanted to argue, fight, make a scene. He didn’t care. These were his boys, their lives on the line. John would, and had done, anything to protect them. He nearly said he would work with the creature—he would get it alone and deal with it, break whatever spell it enchanted his boys with, and then he would kill it like every other supernatural creature that ever had the misfortune to cross his path.

                He stayed quiet instead. He couldn’t just volunteer to work with the monster. It was obviously very intelligent, and strong; John didn’t even know how strong it was, or what he could use  to kill it. He needed to know those before he could even attempt as assassination.

                This monster was bad news, but John forced himself to think rationally. He was being paranoid. The monster could hurt his sons, but…There was no reason it would hurt either of his sons. It needed them, obviously, for protection, for help in its passing as a human. Sam and Dean said it had been working with them for years; if it wanted to kill them, it would have done so by now. So, John had to acknowledge that logically, there was no reason for him to worry about it hurting one of his sons.

                But it couldn’t be allowed to live. It wormed its way into his boys’ brains and hearts, was manipulating them into calling it family and offering it their devout protection and camaraderie. Plus, it was a monster, and that was just the way it worked. Save people, kill monsters, never the other way around, never even just half of it. You couldn’t save people and save the monsters. If the monster wasn’t killed, the people weren’t saved. His boys wouldn’t be safe until the monster was gone.

                “Sounds like a plan,” John said. He took another bite of his food. It tasted rotten on his tongue suddenly, and he had to wash it down with water. He kept his eyes locked onto the ‘angel’. It still sat there, drinking coffee.

                Most monsters needed to feed, but demons didn’t. John could never recall ever seeing a demon eat or drink, or do any of the other basic human needs. It was strange to see this one trying so hard to appear as human that it participated in unnecessary tasks. Except, if that was its goal, it would make more sense for it to order a full meal.

                “Why coffee?” John asked. 

                “I like the taste,” it said, a small smile forming on its lips as it stared down into the mug. Steam continued to curl from it like skeletal fingers towards the ceiling.

                “If he wasn’t an angel, he’d be pissing like a racehorse he drinks so much,” Dean said through a mouth of full food.

                “Dean, you’re disgusting,” it said, nose scrunching in distaste. “It’s impolite to speak with your mouth full.”

                “What would you know about polite, you make babies cry.”

                “That wasn’t my fault,” it said, frowning. “And, isn’t it in the nature of a baby to cry anyway?”

                “Yeah, Dean,” Sam said, smirking. “If babies can’t cry, who can?”

                “I hate all of you,” Dean murmured. He yawned.

                “How are you still tired?” Sam asked. “You literally slept the entire drive.”

                “Excuse me, but maybe you forgot the part where I hadn’t slept at all in days?”

                Sam raised his eyebrows. “So, sleeping arrangements. I can bunk with Dad tonight if you want.”

                John pulled his lip through his teeth. He tasted blood.

                “You guys can’t spend more than five minutes alone together without going for each other’s throats. Dad can get his own room and us three will bunk in one. Well, it’s really only us two, since Cas doesn’t need a bed.”

                John exhaled. Okay, he still wasn’t happy with that arrangement—or how his boys just began calling the shots themselves without any consultation from him; but, it was better than Dean staying alone with the monster. Surely, if it were to go rogue, both his boys could hold their own against it.

                “Well, we should get going then,” Sam said. “We’ve got to get an early start tomorrow morning if we want to cover all our bases.”

                John and Dean slide out of the booths. Dean pulled his wallet out of his pocket and went to the front to pay.

                John lingered behind waiting beside Sam and the monster. He kept staring at the monster out the sides of his eyes. He had to know what this thing was before he could come up with any sort of plan on destroying it.

                “ _Christo,_ ” he said, faking a sneeze,

                “Gesundheit,” Sam said. John’s eyes never left the creature; and its eyes never turned that all-consuming black John had expected. Its eyes didn’t change at all, didn’t even look over towards him in acknowledgement.

                It didn’t mean anything. Just because its eyes didn’t turn black, didn’t mean it wasn’t a demon. It was just a type of demon John had never seen before, maybe one of a kind, like Yellow Eyes, or Alastair.

                Dean came back from paying the tab and they began walking back towards the car. John lingered behind, ensuring he was at least two steps behind.  
               

               He whispered under his breath the beginning of the exorcism spell. The creature didn’t flinch, not at the first word, or after the first sentence, or even when John began to the second verse. John wanted to push through and finish it—a demon was never forced from the vessel until the last word of exorcism rite was spoken—but they had reached the car by that time, and anyway, even if took the entire rite being spoken, usually demons _reacted_ at once. This creature hadn’t reacted at all.

                “Cas, you get shotgun,” Dean said, opening the front passenger door.

                “Aw,” Sam said. “I guess chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

                Dean flicked Sam his middle finger. The creature furrowed, but ducked its head to get into the car. Dean walked around to get into the driver’s seat.

                “What, you’re not going to open the door for us?” Sam said with a toothy grin.

                “You’re a strong, independent woman,” Dean said, opening his door. “Why don’t you actually put that college degree to use every now and then?”

                Sam huffed, but opened the back passenger door. He slide across the bench seat and slide across. He had to angle his knees towards the opposite door to fit his long legs in the foot wells. John could see the discomfort in his younger son’s face, but he didn’t say anything.

                It would be uncomfortable for John too to have to squeeze into the backseat with Sam, his basketball stature only ever a weakness when it came to traveling; but at least John could keep a better eye on the creature and Dean. Looking through the rear view mirror, while requiring nearly no effort, was suspicious. The movement was obvious. John didn’t want to be obvious, didn’t want this creature to know John was watching its every move. If he was going to get the jump on it, John needed it to trust him.

                He couldn’t see the creature’s hands from this position. Couldn’t see if they had that ethereal blue grow to them it had used earlier to lull Dean to sleep.

                John just had to accept that, for the time being, he would have to work with this monster, until John could figure out what it was. Once he knew that, he could figure out how to kill it. But for the time being, he was going to have to work with it.

                He glanced out the window and his blood froze in his veins. That strange woman was there again, standing outside the entrance of the diner.

                _You’re not feeling ill?_ The creature asked. _Hearing things, seeing things?_

He had said no, because he wasn’t. It was just a trick of the eyes, he decided. He was still tired and his brain was still catching up to the reality. He blinked hard and slow and when he opened his eyes again, the woman was gone.

                Just like she always was.

                John dug his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palm.


	11. John

After two days of interviewing and investigating, they discover that it is a djinn. It was squatting in an abandoned house, right smack in the middle of an otherwise decent neighborhood. Dean broke into the basement window and climbed down, the creature right behind him, and the three of them had to help Sam climb through. John slide in right after Sam.

                The creature and Dean were already racing to the far wall where the two missing people were hanging by the wrists. Their eyes were closed and fluttering, mouths wide open and drooling. They eased the couple down gently onto the ground. Dean pulled back the eyelid on the woman and gently slapped her face.

                “C’mon, c’mon,” Dean whispered. “Cas?”

                The creature looked over the man. “They’re alive,” it said. “They are dehydrated and malnourished, but they’re alive.” It reached out and gently touched the victims on their foreheads. The blue light shone again. “The poison is gone now,” it said, pulling its hands away.

                “Thank Christ,” Dean exhaled.

                Sam pulled out his phone and began to call 911. “Yes, I need two ambulances right away,” he said calmly. He listed off the address quickly and then hung up, pocketing his phone. “Any sign of the djinn?” He asked.

                Out of nowhere, something jumped down from the ceiling, landing on top of Dean. John could make out its glowing, blue tattoos and its jagged, shark like teeth.

                “Fuck!” Dean screamed. The djinn was straddled across Dean’s chest, pinning Dean down by his shoulders. He pulled Dean’s head to the side, leaving his neck exposed and it leaned forward.

                Except it didn’t get that far. The creature rushed towards the djinn and put a hand on its head. The creature’s eyes glowed a low blue, consuming its sclera. The djinn screamed, an animalistic sound tearing from its throat. The djinn’s eyes burned a yellowish color, and a sizzling sound filled the air. The small basement was filled with the odor of burning flesh so pungent, John’s stomach twisted and bile burned at his esophagus.

                The djinn collapsed over Dean, eyes burned out, blood dribbling from its slack mouth. Dean let loose a slew of curses, and shoved the dead djinn off him. The creature’s eyes returned to normal, though its hair was sticking up in all directions. John could feel the static electricity in the air.

                It leaned forward and offered its hand. Dean took it, and the creature lifted Dean to his feet. Once he was standing, Dean spat on the dead djinn and kicked its face.

                “Dean, are you all right?” The creature asked.

                “I’m okay,” Dean said, panting. “Didn’t know those fuckers could climb.” He turned to the creature smiling. Sam walked to it as well.  Dean clasped it on its shoulders, grinning. “Nice job, Cas.”

                “We better get out of here,” Sam said. “Ambulance is going to be here at any moment.”

                “Cas, can you take care of this?” Dean pointed to the djinn body. “You know what to do. Meet us back at the motel?”

                The creature nodded. It bent down and touched two fingers to the djinn’s forehead. The room filled with the sound of flapping. They both were gone.

                John blinked. He looked at his boys.

                “Let’s just through the front door,” Dean was saying. “I can’t shove your ass back through that window.”

                “No offense Dean, but I don’t really want you shoving my ass anywhere.”

                “What was that?” John asked. He couldn’t help it. It just spilled out. The image of the creature doing what it just did, slaughter with just a touch, was still reeling in his mind. “How did it do that?”

                “Do what?” Sam asked.

                “Kill the djinn.”

                “Angel, remember?” Sam said with a huff. “Smiting powers come in pretty handy every now and then.”

                No, John still didn’t want to believe it. An angel. Sure. Right.

                Demons were strong, resilient, powerful; but they couldn’t kill with a touch. John swallowed. He had to force his legs to move, to walk up the stairs behind his boys and listen to them bicker and mock each other, to leave the house and get to the car before the paramedics came.

                It just vanished into thin air, too.  But not silently, the way demons did. It had made a noise….

                John sat in the backseat of the car and stared out the window.

\--

                It was there waiting outside Sam and Dean’s motel room.

                “Hey,” Dean said. He stood uncomfortably close to it, to the point where they had to be breathing each other’s air. “How’d it go?”

                “I properly disposed of the body,” It said.

                Dean chortled and put a hand on its shoulder. “That’s my boy. Tell you guys what, I think we deserve to celebrate. Sam, where’s the closest bar to here?”

\--

                They cleaned up and dressed in more casual clothes and then headed to a bar just around the corner from the motel aptly named _Bar and Grille._

                It was tradition, John supposed, to go to a bar and get blind drunk after a successful hunt. He couldn’t find much appetite for alcohol, though, he thought disdainfully. He was only halfway through his first beer when he began to feel nauseous. He snacked on the complimentary pretzels, and was content to watch from his spot in the back booth.

                The bar was crowded. Men and women leaning against the pool tables, or playing darts, or loitering by the juke box.

                Dean, Sam and the creature had spent most of the evening playing pool. From what John could tell, it looked like they were trying to teach it how to hustle. John snorted. He looked around.

                The bar was full of several beautiful women. Several beautiful women sitting alone, eyeing the men in the bar, clearly interested in a night of passion.  There were at least two women that had a great interest in Dean. Their eyes were hooded, searching him up and down, lips curled over their drinking straws.

                How was Dean ignoring them? The Dean John knew was a total stud, and he was, frankly, shameless. These women were beautiful, and interested, and Dean was either ignoring them, or completely oblivious to the way they stared at him with that predatory glare.

                Dean may not have been that smart, but he wasn’t _stupid._ John wasn’t, either. He knew Dean’s post-hunt celebration rituals. Couple of drinks, few rounds of pool, then he would disappear for a few hours with a beautiful woman on his arm.

                John picked another pretzel, sucking all the salt off before he ate it.

                The…angel…watched Sam and Dean intently; studiously. Dean hit the cue ball. It smacked loudly against the other balls, adding to volume inside the bar.

                They stood so close to one another, they were almost touching. Dean passed the pool cue to the angel and pointed to the white ball. He was saying something, but John couldn’t hear. Sam was laughing, though, in that way he had where he was trying to look like he wasn’t. John could see the bemused twinkle in Sam’s eye from the booth. He took another sip of beer, and despite feeling unwell, suddenly grew a craving for something stronger.

                He flagged down a waitress and ordered a glass of Tennessee whiskey because, hey, they were in Tennessee, why not make it an experience?

                The drink was sweet, but still managed to burn on its way down. John gulped half of it down in one swallow and slammed it against the table. He pulled out his cellphone and turned it over uneasily in his hand. He still didn’t quite understand it, but Sam had shown him earlier how to use it somewhat. Sam taught him how to connect his phone to the ‘wiffy’, some sort of new Internet thing he could use without having a phone jack.

                John opened the browser and keyboard. He typed slowly with his pointer finger and bit down on his tongue in frustration when he still made spelling mistakes and had to start over. Eventually though, he got it.

                _Angel mythology_

Tens of thousands of results popped up. At the very top of the page were several different Renaissance style paintings  depicting a human-esque creature with wings extending from its back. In some of the images, the angel had just two wings, others six. Some had clearly defined faces and others were obscured by a pair of wings crossing over its head.

                John looked at the web page results.

                They were spoken of in wonder. They were guardians, and fierce warriors, servants of God. Some of the results led to reports of people who claimed to have seen angels. Some results spoke of a language John had never heard of before, ‘Enochian’ but when John looked at the writing, it was familiar of the markings he had seen at the demon murder sight, the writings etched into that collar the creature had worn when they found it.

                John looked back up at his boys. One of the articles stated that angels had to take vessels in order to interact with humans; only a select few, chosen by God Himself, were able to look at the true visage of an angel. Anyone else would either go blind or mad.

                That fucker was possessing some poor son of a bitch.

                John’s fist curled around the glass.

                He knew it. He knew this monster was bad news. John tossed back the rest of the whiskey and ignored the vertigo that overcame him suddenly.

                He had to get rid of that monster soon.

                If only he knew how…


	12. Dean

CH 11

                Dean was buzzed. It was a good buzz though, the kind that made his head light and insides fuzzy. They had had a nice night of pool and beer and bar food. He wished his dad had participated a bit more, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. They had another hunt well done. Dad got to see Cas being a badass, and Dean knew Dad had been impressed.

                Sam set up on his bed with his laptop, in his pajamas. Cas sat on their bed, working on his newest knitting project. It had finally started to take some semblance of shape. Dean could see the end result in the spool of yarn Cas pulled from with his needles. He had teased Cas about it initially, but it was good for Cas to have a hobby. Something creative. Cas had said once that as an angel, much of his power was focused on destruction. He enjoyed being able to create, for once.

                And Dean had to admit, the stuff Cas knitted was pretty comfy. Knit caps, mittens, scarves. If Cas wasn’t reading, or researching, or forcing Dean to watch _Full House,_ he was knitting, and the sounds of the knitting needles clacking together had grown into a white noise Dean craved to fall asleep.

                Dean left his brother and Cas to hop into the shower.

                So much had happened these last few months. Not just his Dad suddenly showing up out of nowhere, but Dean thought he was beginning to get over the shock of that. He found himself in a similar position, when he ran into Castiel in the middle of suburbia. And, at the time, he had been angry. Furious. Furious at Cas for breaking Sammy’s head, and then furious at him for dying. Furious that Cas didn’t remember what he did.

                But, then Cas did remember and he looked Dean straight in the eye and said, “I deserved to die.” And then Dean couldn’t be angry anymore, not at all, because Cas _meant_ it. Cas was furious at himself for being alive. He thought God was punishing him by bringing him back to life, and Dean couldn’t be furious at Cas anymore, because they were alive, everyone was alive, and the world was still spinning because of the decisions Cas made.

                And then Cas rectified his mistake by taking on Sam’s hell madness when he couldn’t get rid of it. There was Cas forsaking his newly found pacifism to help kill the Leviathan king.

                Then there was Purgatory.

                They got blown into Purgatory, and Cas vanished, and Dean spent the better part of a year looking high and low, in every crook and cranny for his best friend. Four months in, he started to doubt. Maybe one of the millions of monsters that stalked the woods got the jump on Cas. Dean didn’t want to believe that; that God would bring Cas back just for Cas to die immediately again.

                So Dean kept looking, and praying; begging Cas to come back to him.

                Dean teamed up with Benny, and together, they did find Cas. And Dean hugged onto him and he didn’t want to let go, never mind the fact that Cas was filthier than Dean had ever seen him before.

                That night, they talked.

                “It’s not safe for me to be with you,” Cas whispered. His breath was warm in contrast to the bitter cold nights Dean had slowly become accustomed to. Cas’s hand was on Dean’s shoulder, and they were so close. “I am an angel in a land of abominations. There is a price on my head. The Leviathan—“

                “What about them? We took down their boss, just the two of us. We can handle a couple of grunges every now and then.”

                “I’m being hunted. Every monster—“

                “Cas, we can go home. Don’t you want to go home?”

                Cas swallowed. His lips trembled. “I don’t deserve—“

                Dean shut him up with a kiss. The most chaste kiss he could ever remember giving in a long time. It was soft, barely there, but it Cas silenced. Dean closed his eyes, hands gripping onto the lapels of Cas’s dirty coat.

                When they broke, Dean rested his forehead against Cas’s, bringing his hand up to cup the side of Cas’s face. He wasn’t used to the long facial hair, wasn’t used to seeing Cas so unkempt, but there was still something soothing about the roughness against Dean’s palm. Something tactile, something Dean could hold onto to prove that this was real.  

                “Come home with me,” Dean whispered. He was aware, vaguely, that Benny was somewhere in the background, seeing all this unfold. He realized he didn’t care. He’d been looking for so long, and now he finally had Cas—it didn’t matter what Benny did or didn’t think.

                The bitter wind whistled quietly around them; the stream ran slowly, bubbling into each crook and cranny. A tornado of calming, white noise surrounded them, and in the environment of Purgatory, it was more unnerving than relaxing. There was supposed to be monstrous growls, screams of agony, Dean’s heartbeat pounding inside his skull.

                “Okay,” Cas said after a pregnant pause. “Okay.”

                They trudged through Purgatory, and spent nights pressed up against each other. Oftentimes, Dean was awoken in the middle of a fit full sleep to run away from some sort of monster that had stalked them down, and once it was dead, or they put enough space between them and it, Cas would have Dean rest his head in Cas’s lap and Cas would use wisps of his grace to lull Dean back to sleep.

                Cas healed all his wounds, even the minor ones. Small cuts on the insides of his fingers from his machete, bruises from tripping over rocks or roots; once he fell down a modest incline and twisted his ankle. It had begun to swell to twice its size before he realized what had happened, before he could swear in pain, and Cas just touched Dean’s forehead and it was healed, no sense of injury anywhere.

                He wasn’t sure if he would’ve survived Purgatory without Cas.

                He had survived fine those months before he found Cas, but they were long, difficult months. Those months, he was lucky to sleep two hours a day, and every minor injury multiplied on each other, making even the smallest pains seem excruciating; but the exhaustion had almost done him in.

                That night he found Cas, he had one of the best nights of sleep in his life. Not just because Cas had lulled him to sleep, but because Dean didn’t need to worry. He had found Cas. Cas was okay. Cas was going home with him.

                And when they busted out of Purgatory, and they paid Benny’s debt by digging up his body, they reunited with Sam.

                Sam took one look at them after hugging the air out of them and snorted. “’Bout time,” he said, and that was all he ever said on the subject.

                Dean didn’t want to label what he had with Cas…it just…it was what it was. Cas was his best friend, his comrade. Dean could confide in Cas things he never could with Sam; he always had to be strong for Sam, be the big brother, and make sure Sam’s needs were met.

                But Cas…Dean didn’t have to be strong for Cas. He could show Cas his insecurities, his fears, and Cas never thought less of him for them. In fact, Cas’s perception of Dean only seemed to increase every time Dean confided in Cas some dark part of him he had to keep locked away.

                Dean had never had someone like that. He always had to be strong, for Sam, for his Dad.

                Dean was still having a hard time believing his dad was actually here. John did not leave his relationship with Dean in a good place before he died. Dean could still remember his father beckoning him over and whispering in his ear that he had to either kill Sam or save him. Dean saw red and clenched his fists. All his life, his father had dumped an unfair amount of responsibility onto Dean’s shoulders, and now he had the balls to ask this?

                It had been too much at the time. But now that years and death had separated them, Dean wanted to forgive John. If they were going to work together, they had to forgive each other. They were family; he was Dean’s family. Dean wanted John in his life, in any way possible. He wanted to have his entire family: Sam, Cas, and John. And now he could have that.

                For once in his life, Dean thought he could finally have everything he wanted.

                The water in the shower began to run cold and Dean stepped out. He dried off quickly and stepped into his boxer shorts before walking back into the motel room.

                “Ew,” Sam said, snorting, even though he barely glanced up from his laptop. “Can we at least try to keep up some semblance of modesty?”

                Dean bent down and dug through his duffel bag, searching for his sleep shirt and sweat pants.

                “Unless your computer is free of any type of porn, I don’t think you have a right to talk about modesty.”

                Sam blanched and began to type again on his computer.

                “That’s what I thought,” Dean grinned and stepped into his pants. He fell back onto the bed and shimmed his pants over his backside, scooting up to the headboard. Cas had Dean’s computer out. Dean leaned over to see what Cas was looking at, and he couldn’t help but snort.

                “Dude, are you really stalking tiger moms knitting projects?”

                Cas didn’t look at him. He made another stitch in his monstrosity. “Tigers can’t use the Internet, Dean.” The knitting needles fell into Cas’s lap and he titled his head. Dean groaned internally. “Can they? Tigers are very intelligent, maybe I could teach them to use the Internet.”

                Cas pulled the laptop closer to him and splayed his hand over the keyboard. “They wouldn’t be very good at typing—“

                “Cas, the joke died a long time ago.”

                Cas got the closest he ever did to smiling. Something gentle, and ghostly across his lips; but it still brightened up his entire face.

                “They are very good at what they do,” Cas said, pointing to the computer screen. Dean leaned over to look at it. They were various patterns and photos of different sweaters.

                “I am never going to forgive the person who showed you Pinterest,” Dean said loudly, glaring at Sam. Sam shrugged and pulled a face, but Dean could see the laugh he was trying to hold back.                                      

                 “Consider it payback,” Sam said, with a bitchy grin, “for making me suffer through your music tastes all my life.”

                Dean rolled his eyes. “Are you still looking at porn, or did you find us a case yet?”

                Sam sighed. He rubbed his eyes. “Maybe? Looks like there might be demons lurking around Kansas City, Missouri. Found an article here that says a few days ago, an unconscious couple was found on the sidewalk covered in their own blood, but no wounds were found on either person. Neither of them have woken up yet, either.”

                “Great,” Dean said, plopping down onto the bed. “Demons. Can’t we go two weeks without having to do anything demon-related?”

                Sam huffed. He closed his laptop and reached over to place it on the nightstand.

                “Someone’s gotta do it,” Sam said, shrugging.

                “Well, can’t that someone be someone else for once?” Dean groaned. But he was already mapping the trip out in his mind, thinking about Interstates and speed limits and traffic. He knew already that the trip would be no less than nine hours, which wasn’t too bad. If they left at the ass crack of dawn, they could make it by tomorrow afternoon.

                “Well, time to hit the hay, then,” Dean said. “Don’t stay up too late, Cas,” Dean said, grinning at the annoyance in Cas’s expression.

                Yeah, it was a crappy job, but it was their crappy job. And having his entire family with him made it a little less crappy.

 


	13. John

CH 12

                In the pre-sunrise hours, John watched his sons load their bags into the trunk of the car with habitual efficiency. The bags were sloppily thrown in, but John didn’t care about that. He wanted to know what was already in the car. He could see it, stashed in the far back corner. Two beige jugs nestled together like baby birds. There was no sort of marking on them, but John was fairly sure it was what he needed.

                He was tired, and knew it probably showed in the dark bags underneath his eyes and lackluster shine to his hair. He hadn’t slept at all last night. He stayed up researching on his phone anything he could find about angels. He still couldn’t be sure how much of what he wrote was accurate, but several sources mentioned holy fire and angel blades, and it left John with enough leeway to come up with many ideas.

                Besides, being alone all night with just the sounds of his own breathing had given John time to think. He wanted the creature to suffer. He couldn’t just kill it. It needed to pay for intruding into John’s family like it had. It needed to lift whatever spell it cast over John’s boys, and then it needed to suffer, forever.

                As soon as Dean had told John where they were headed, John began making plans. His boys were well-versed in the supernatural, but they were still some things they didn’t know about, some people so sick in the head and diabolical, John had done everything in his power to keep his boys away from that side of the community. Dean and Sam may have resented growing up around drunk hillbillies, but they didn’t know the way John did, how that was so much better than the alternative.

                But, John was grateful, for once, of that side of the community. For once, those types of hunters would actually be of some use.

                John sat in the backseat with the creature. His could feel his blood pressure rising every second that ticked away he was still sat next to the monster. But John bit down hard on his cheek the entire way, always keeping the creature in sight through the corner of his eye. The creature sat ramrod straight the entire time, hands folded neatly in its lap; even its feet were pointed forward. If it were human, John might have been able to muster up some grain of sympathy for it, for “Castiel”. It had the aura of an abused Catholic boy, one that learned to keep its hands hidden so as to not get smacked by a ruler.

                Regardless, it wouldn’t be a problem much longer. John would see to that personally.

\--

                They get into Kansas City just after four in the afternoon. John splits up with Sam to go to the hospital where the victims are currently still comatose, while Dean and the creature go to the site where the victims were found.

                John’s not sure there is much of a case. Sam and Dean think the people had been possessed by demons, but the key word there was _had_. Staring at two comatose people in a hospital bed seemed to prove the point that the demons were long gone by now.

                Sam spoke to the doctor. John lingered behind, staring at the patients.

                “It’s so strange,” she said shaking her head. “The paramedics brought them in, they were just drenched in blood. We ran tests, it was their own blood. But there’s not a scratch on them.”

                “What are your theories?” Sam asked. He towered over this particular doctor by nearly ten inches, and he bent down at what had to be an uncomfortable angle so they were eye level.

                The doctor sighed. “This level of brain damage is usually seen with blunt force trauma. But, there are no injuries.”

                “And the prognosis?”

                “Honestly? It’s not looking too good. We always try and hope for the best but, it’s not looking likely. I think the families are considering pulling the plug.”

                Sam smacked his lips. “Thank you for your time, doctor.”

                John walked up so that he was shoulder to shoulder with Sam. “Waste of time,” he muttered as they paced down the hall.

                Sam shrugged and put his notepad in his breast pocket. “No medical diagnosis fits in with our demon theory. We’ll check back in with Dean and Cas, see what they found out. See if there are any witnesses anywhere.”

                “I still don’t understand,” John said, stepping to the elevator after Sam. “We just had the demon case in Ohio not even a few weeks ago.”

                “Yeah?”

                “And now there’s another one?”

                “Yeah. We told you. Demons are old news these days.”

                The elevator doors closed.

\--

                The four of them sat in one motel room that night. John sat at the small side table, typing slowly on Sam’s laptop. Dean and Sam were sifting through various newspapers with red pens and a box of half-eaten pizza sat on the bed. The creature was looking over a city map.

                “Okay,” Dean said, mouth full, “so according to the creepy bartender, the vics were regulars. Came in every Thursday night for happy hour. That’s the only connection we have.”

                “So we should check out the bar then,” John said, peeling his eyes away. “Tomorrow’s Thursday. We stake the place out. If it is a demon, it’s going to be looking for its next victim.”

                “It has probably already obtained a new victim,” the creature said.

                “Excuse me?” John said. He shut the laptop screen down halfway, but the creature’s eyes were still locked onto its stupid map, not a mark on it.

                “Demons crave destruction. They have to destroy. Once it burned out its first victims, there’s no reason for it to hesitate in taking another. If it’s still even in the area.”

                John’s mouth drew into a thin line.

                “We should be looking for people that have already disappeared,” it finished.

                “Let me see the computer,” Sam said, reaching over to take the laptop away. “The first two vics were missing for about two days before their bodies were found, so we need to be looking for that criteria.”

                The creature moved suddenly, standing up and walking towards Dean’s duffel. It dug through it for a moment before pulling out something indiscreet. It walked over to John and held the object out.

                “This is for you,” it said. John stared at the object suspiciously before it he reached and took it. It was something soft, and when the creature let go, it fell open.

                It was a sweater. John’s nose scrunched. He looked up to the creature. It was beaming, eyes bright and wide.

                “I made it,” it said.

                John took his second hand and held the sweater in both. The material was soft, the stitches tightly woven. He looked back up cautiously. He saw Dean and Sam staring out the corners of their eyes.

                “Thank you?” John said quietly.

                Sam smiled slightly and Dean just huffed and shook his head. The creature moved back to its spot with the map.

                John picked at a stitch with his fingernail.

                Yeah, this thing had to go _now._

\--

                They find and kill the demons two days later, after tracking them down in a Biggerson’s, of all places.

                They go out to celebrate that night.

                John stares at the newspaper in front of him, flipping through the want ads. There’s an ad and a number for someone seeking “rare and exotic valuables” with a signature John only saw once, but had stuck with him ever since.

                At the back of the bar, John pulled out his cellphone and dialed the number.

                “Hello?” A cheery voice picked up.

                “I saw your ad in the newspaper,” John said, taking a sip of his beer. “I think I may have something that would be of interest to you.”

                “Oh, really? I’ll have you know, I happen to have an extensive collection, and frankly, I’m not looking for duplicates.”

                “But you don’t have what I’m willing to sell you,” John said. He looked up at the creature, looming next to his boys. “You have an angel in your collection?”

                He heard a gasp on the other end. “You have an actual angel? Really?”

                “I need to get rid of it as soon as possible,” John said. “Can you take it tomorrow?”

                A pause. “That sounds almost too good to be true. How much you want for it?”

                “Fifty,” John said. Not as much as he should get, but he was on a time crunch. He’d get rid of the damn thing for free, just to wash his hands of it. But if he could get something off the creature, he might as well.

                “I’ll see you then, old sport.”

 


	14. Castiel

CH 13

                Castiel sat on the bed next to Dean. He watched Dean’s breath rise and fall in sync with Sam’s, even as far away as they were. His ran his fingers over the edge of his new paperback book, _Cat’s Cradle._ It was one Dean had shoved into his chest and said with his serious voice, “I won’t love you anymore if you don’t read it.”

                Castiel was fairly sure Dean had been joking, but he took the book nonetheless and began reading it that night.

                He enjoyed reading, now that he knew it could be an experience. After leaving Purgatory, he had indulged in many books, ranging from a variety of genres. Non-fiction, craft books, to high fantasy like _Lord of the Rings_ and _A Song of Ice and Fire._ Reading, like his knitting, was mentally reinvigorating. A way to release the taxing exhaustion the day had dealt them.

                These last few days had been extremely mentally exhausting, more so than the usual kind he and the brothers endured.

                Castiel was still concerned about John Winchester’s sudden appearance. It had to either be angels or demons who had brought the man down from his heaven and back to life. And Castiel still couldn’t decipher any sort of motivation for either side to want John Winchester alive.

                He sighed and bookmarked his page, making sure to use a slip of paper, and not “dog-ear” it to avoid angering Dean. He could see the stress John Winchester’s appearance had made on both brothers. It was odd, however, because though they were obviously stressed, they still seemed happy to have their father back. And Castiel tried to emphasize. He had never met his father, but the desire to one day meet God never dissolved. Dean and Sam may have carried some resentment for their father, but he was still their father. Their family.

                Castiel looked over at both brothers. Their eyelids were twitching rapidly, indicating they had entered REM sleep.

                Castiel wondered what it was like, to dream. He understood it, intellectually. Understood that it was nothing more than the brain processing stressors and events. It was like watching a movie, the images dancing around and the dreamer was a spectator to them. Sometimes the dreamer wasn’t aware that they were actually dreaming, but sometimes they did.

                Yes, Castiel understood dreaming, but that was nothing like experiencing it.

                And yet, he was terrified of experiencing it. Dean suffered from nightmares, relived Hell and was taken with cold sweats and tremors. Castiel was able to soothe them with little use of his grace, but he didn’t like to see Dean in pain, even pain that might not be so serious compared to the severities it could reach.

                There was a knock on the door. Castiel frowned and left the bed. He looked through the eyehole in the door and saw John Winchester standing on the other side, looking impatient.

                What would John be doing up at this night? Had he found another case?

                Castiel quickly undid the deadbolt and opened the door.

                John smiled warmly. Castiel noticed John was wearing the sweater Castiel had made him. It made him smile too.

                “Can I talk to you?” John whispered, peering past Castiel into the room. “We haven’t had a chance to speak with each other alone. I’d like to get to know you better.”

                Castiel looked over his shoulder. Sam and Dean were both sleeping peacefully. Dean had turned over onto his stomach and curled into the warm space Castiel had left. He snored then, and smacked his lips obnoxiously.

                Truth be told, Castiel wanted to speak with John himself. This was the man that had raised Sam and Dean; the man that loved Dean so much, he sold his soul for him. The world’s greatest hunter. Castiel respected the man, and he was Sam and Dean’s family. He owed it to John to be respectful, and accept him as family.

                “Of course,” Castiel said, stepping forward. He closed the door behind him. It automatically locked behind him.

                “Let’s go for a drive,” John said, stepping onto the parking lot. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out what Castiel recognized as Dean’s keyring. “Don’t tell Dean,” John said, laughing slightly.

                He opened the driver side door and started the engine. It roared to life and the lights shone brightly against the row of rose bushes in front of it. Castiel slide into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him.

                There was a clicking noise right beside his head.

                Castiel froze.

                “Don’t move,” John growled.

                Castiel’s hand was still wrapped around the door handle. He swallowed and looked out of the corner of his eye. John Winchester held the Colt. Castiel felt the cold steel of the barrel pressed against his temple.

                There was a rattling sound.

                “Put your hands out in front of you,” John said. “Now.” He dug the barrel of the gun against the sensitive skin of Castiel’s temple.

                Castiel slowly moved his hands in front of him. He kept his head still, but never took his eyes away from the weapon pressed against his head.

                John reached in front of him, struggling to keep the weapon still.

                With one hand, John snapped on the handcuffs, adjusting them to their full tightness. They bit into the skin around his wrists, and they _burned._ Castiel clenched his teeth together to hold back the hiss of pain. It wasn’t just around his wrists, either, but it went deeper, into him and his mind. His vision failed, fuzzy and blurred colors the only thing he was able to make out. He was unable to read the sigils etched into the cuffs. But he couldn’t move his wings, or reach his smiting powers to blast the damn cuffs off.

                It was very similar to the collar the demons in Ohio had made him wear.

                “What are you doing?” Castiel managed to gasp. He didn’t understand. He thought John liked him. He thought…

                He was so stupid.

                “Protecting my family,” John said. He shifted the car into gear and rammed the gas, sending it circling out of the parking space. Castiel’s stomach lurched with it; an unsettling sensation came about him once the car began to move forward. His stomach felt heavy and bubbly, and he felt very, very hot. The heat went straight to his face, down his throat, and sweat began to bead at his hairline.

                He gasped for breath like he couldn’t get enough. It was an unsettling feeling. He felt out of control of his vessel.

                “Who’s the poor bastard you’re possessing?” John said.

                “What?”

                John struck him against the head with the Colt. Pain exploded in Castiel’s head. His vision blurred even worse, funny shapes appearing in the mix of blurred colors.

                “Who are you possessing?” John said again, slowly. It was a deep, guttural growl.

                “I’m not possessing anyone,” Castiel answered, swallowing. Warm blood trickled down his temple, around the auricle of his ear. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hand. “This body is mine.”

                “No it’s not,” John snarled. The car moved faster. Castiel’s throat burned. “I’ve been reading about your kind. ‘Angels’. You can’t interact on Earth without a vessel. Like demons.”

                Castiel shook his head. “You’re not wrong. Angels do need a vessel. Our true forms can be…overwhelming for the human mind. But, we do not possess. We’re not like demons. We can only take a vessel with explicit permission. And, the man who used to own this body is gone.”

                Castiel’s eyes burned when he thought of Jimmy Novak. Poor Jimmy Novak. He had wanted to serve God, but not like this. No, at the end, Jimmy’s decision had nothing to do with God, but been only his desire to protect his family, in whatever way possible.

                “This body was a gift,” Castiel said. Not just from Jimmy, but from God. When Lucifer had nearly annihilated him, killing Jimmy, God recreated Castiel in this likeness.

                John snorted. “You’re dangerous. Hideously so. I saw you take out that djinn, and those demons, with your bare hands. It was only a matter of time before you went rogue and used that fancy ‘grace’ of yours to take out Sam and Dean, wasn’t it?”

                “What? No!”     

                John raised the gun again and Castiel flinched. John’s jaw tightened and he lowered the gun minutely.

                “Sam and Dean,” Castiel felt the panic settle in his chest, squirming like a fist full of worms. “They’re my family. I would never hurt them.”

                “Of course you would. You were just waiting for the right time. You’re a monster, sure as day. You been using mind control on them, make them keep you around?”

                “Of course not!”

                It was then Castiel realized he might die. John Winchester had the Colt, Castiel was bound, both in body and grace; he was weak, nearly human, and John Winchester had a vendetta and a weapon that could bring him harm just millimeters from his head. John was angry, deluded, even. Anger clouded judgement, and it would only take John just squeezing his finger slightly and Castiel would be dead.

                He inhaled shakily. What would Sam and Dean think, when they found out? Would they ever know the truth? If they knew the truth, would they care? Castiel knew how much Dean loved his father. Would Dean’s love for John outweigh John’s crimes against Castiel?

                Castiel’s vision was slowly recovering from the head blow. He shifted his eyes to look out the windshield. He saw the black of the asphalt, the occasional blur of a tree, or building. He didn’t understand these human road systems, though. He didn’t know where John was taking him, and how he might get back to the boys if he could escape.

                He contemplated jumping out the car door. He estimated the car was going sixty miles an hour, which meant _he_ was moving at sixty miles an hour. If he jumped out the car, he would definitely obtain injuries to the skin and muscle, road burns. He risked breaking bones, and more head injuries.

                However, he was certain that it wouldn’t kill him. Even with the cuffs, bodily harm wouldn’t be enough to kill him.

                A shot in the head from the Colt that John Winchester held in his hands could definitely kill him.

                He moved. He lunged for the door handle and pressed all his weight against the door—

                And nothing moved. Castiel moved the door handle again and it barely shifted. The outside environment buzzed by, and the panic in Castiel’s chest exploded, escaping in heavy breaths.

                “Don’t even think about it,” John said. “You move for that lock, I’ll blow your brains out right here, right now.”

                Castiel looked at the door lock. The irony of the situation was painful; just a silver peg was his wall before freedom and death. And if he took it, he would encounter death.

                “Answer me, now,” John said. “How have you been using your magic on my boys?”

                “I don’t—“ Castiel began to say, then swallowed. “I help them. I heal their injuries, I aide them to sleep—“

                “You brainwash them, don’t you.”

                “No! I would never….the mind is sacred, I would never invade their privacy in such a way.”

                When he first met Dean, he had seen into the Righteous Man’s mind; seen the depth of his despair, his pitiful self-loathing, self-hatred. It was the only time he ever peered into a human’s subconscious, seen them at their most vulnerable. He had never peered into Dean’s mind since. Somethings, he knew, were just too personal to share with anyone, somethings needed to be kept strictly to oneself, not even shared with loved ones.

                He loved Dean and Sam. He would never betray them in such a way.

                “You’re lying,” John said. “My boys would _never_ let something like you live, if you weren’t influencing them somehow.”

                Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line. He could see where the Winchester boys got their irritating stubbornness from.

                The car skidded to a halt. Castiel’s body was thrown forward and his face hit the dashboard. His mouth filled with blood instantly, and he prodded at a loose tooth with his tongue.

                There was the popping of the car locks. John exited the car, slamming the driver’s door shut. He wrenched open the passenger’s side and grabbed Castiel by the handcuffs, hauling him bodily out. Castiel failed to get his footing and slumped to his knees hard against the asphalt. The shock raced up his femurs and spine.

                With these cuffs, he was very nearly human human. Castiel remembered what it was like to scrap the edge of humanity, during that period where he was Falling and becoming less angel every day. When sleep and food were necessities and every day aches and pains built on top of one another. These aches he had now were not the simple, mundane aches of humanity.

                He forced his eyes open through the pain. They were in front of an old, beat up storage unit. Castiel looked over his shoulder. The main road was about fifty feet away. A car drove past just as he watched.

                If he screamed, would somehow hear him?

                Would John Winchester kill him?

                John grabbed him by the elbow. “Get. Up.” John twisted at Castiel’s arm and pulled him up. Castiel’s feet were wobbly, but he focused his attention on keeping on his feet.

                He felt something press against his back. “Move,” John said, clamping a hard hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He shoved Castiel forward, into the building. Castiel allowed it. It was in his best interest to obey John, at least until he could devise an escape plan.

                It was dark, damp, and smelly. There was no natural light. John shoved him into the center of the room, and then he let go.

                “Don’t get any funny ideas,” John said.

                There was a subtle, sudden sloshing noise.

                John shoved something heavy into his hands. “Pour a circle.”

                Castiel furrowed his brow, until he realized what he was holding. It was the jug of holy oil the boys kept in their trunk. Its weight seemed to double in Castiel’s hand. He looked up at John. John was glancing down at his cell phone several feet away.

                He must have felt Castiel’s stare. He looked up, and his features darkened. “Pour the circle, now.” He raised the Colt.

                “Please,” Castiel said. He hadn’t meant to say it, to sound so desperate, but the fear of being trapped behind holy fire outweighed his pride.  “There must be some sort of misunderstanding. Sam and Dean are my family.”

                “The circle.”

                “There is no need for this,” Castiel said. “The handcuffs, there are enough to keep me contained. Really, the oil is an unnecessary redundancy—“

                The shot fired off. Castiel fell to the ground, a fiery pain burning just underneath his knee. The jug fell to the ground, and the noise echoed throughout the small room. Castiel’s hand instinctively went to the pain site. He peeled it away, and his palm was wet, sticky red. A lump formed in his throat. John Winchester’s footsteps paced around his head.

                John bent down. He hand wrapped around the plastic jug and lifted it. A drop of oil slugged down and dripped beside Castiel’s nose. The stench was repulsive, and only added to the heaviness in Castiel’s stomach.

                He heard the familiar sound of the oil being placed, mixed in with John’s footsteps circling him.

                The stimulation was too much. There was the dull, but present pain in his head, the new, fiery pain in his leg, his stomach, his blotchy vision, and John Winchester, all demanding parts of his attention.

                There was a small click and a _whoosh._ Bright flames shot up around Castiel. Something instinctual stirred inside Castiel, some itch inside his brain. He pulled his wings as close to him as he could, pulled his hands towards his center. The cuffs bound his grace, but the fire could still kill him with just a touch.

                He looked up to John. John staring down at him with murderous intent.

                Yet, if John wanted to kill him, he had all the opportunities to do so. Why bother with the oil at all? John could’ve killed him outside the motel room with the Colt.

                “What are you going to do with me?” Castiel asked.

                “Get you out of the way,” John said. He walked away to the corner. Castiel arched his neck uncomfortably, but couldn’t see what John was picking up. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out.”

                “The boys will never forgive you.”

                Castiel heard the sound of the oil dripping again, heard the familiar click of the lighter.

                “That’s where you’re wrong. See, once I get you out of the way, your little magic voodoo thing is gonna disappear. They’re gonna be thinking clearly for the first time since you ever shoved your way into their lives. They’re gonna be thankful.”

                Castiel saw something long and dark swinging object in John’s hand. The top part was red and smoldering.

                “We’ve got ourselves a little time, though,” John said. He swung the object in his hand, creating a _whooshing_ noise. John raised it above his head. “How about we have a little fun?”

 

 

 


	15. John

CH 14

                 The angel’s eyes were glazed over, blood pooling from its mouth and head. Every now and then, it would make some sort of groaning noise, a tiny twitch in its fingers, but never more than that. The flames still danced brightly and warmly. The silence was heavy; in his mind, John could still hear the echoes of metal crashing against bone.

                John batted the tire iron against his shin impatiently. He had hoped the angel would make some sort of noise when John hit it with the tire iron, but it kept its mouth dutifully shut, barely releasing a breath, even when John struck it again and again; when he relit the holy fire on it and let it burn out, so the angel could suffer its heat.

                John had been hoping to get something from the angel, something he could take pride in, but the angel proved to be a tough son of a bitch. John underestimated its will power.

                Staring at it was boring. Brain itching boring.

                But John would be glad to get rid of the thing. Watching the angel twitch and moan wasn’t any fun, and the point was to get it away from his boys.

                That part had been surprisingly easy. John had expected the angel to be wary, suspicious, put up some sort of fight. But no. John led it to the car, and from there on it had been easy. Easy to restrain, easy to subdue. Aside from it not putting down the holy oil, John needed no force. It had trusted John from the beginning. It made John laugh slightly.

                He was upset at having to waste a bullet from the Colt, but he needed to show the angel he was serious.

                John checked his watch. He bit his cheek. Twenty minutes late. He huffed and stood up. The angel stiffened and curled into itself, and John couldn’t deny the tiny bit of satisfaction that brought him. He let the tire iron fall enough to scrap against the concrete.

                And then he heard a car pulling up. John straightened out his back and waited cautiously by the door. There was a knock. John opened the door slowly, just a crack.

                “What’s the word?” John said.

                “Really? Are you serious? Who else would be driving around this area at this time of night?”

                “Password,” John spat.

                The man sighed. “Poughkeepsie.”

                John opened the door all the way. The man that walked in looked to be in his early fifties, though his attire seemed to outdate him by several years. He wore a suit and a bow tie. He was shorter than John, with a full head of dark hair and straight, white teeth.

                “You must be John Winchester,” he said, smiling. He stuck his hand out. John’s grip tightened on the tire iron.

                “Magnus?”

                “In the flesh, old sport.”

                Magnus gasped and walked past John.

                “Is that the angel?” He looked to John with childlike eyes.

                “In the flesh,” John said gruffly.                                                                                                  

                “Oh,” Magnus said, grinning ear to ear. He looked to John, a brightness shining in his eyes. “I’ve read so much about angels. Used to have an entire library on them, actually, but I’ve never seen one in real life before.”

                Magnus sat on his knees just by the edge of the flames. “It’s a little beat up.”

                “Condition was not part of our agreement.”

                Magnus sighed. “I suppose that’s true. It should be okay, though. Angels are very good healers, you know. What’re those handcuffs for?”

                “They keep it contained, so that it doesn’t kill all of us.”

                “Oh, yes. That’s smart. Very smart.” Magnus bent forward, almost brushing the flames. “Hello, there,” he said. The angel’s eyes moved over to Magnus. It furrowed its eyebrows and locked its jaw. Magnus gave a small wave. “Hello. I’m your new daddy.”

                “Go to hell,” the angel muttered. Its gaze never wavered.

                Magnus huffed. “Got bit of an attitude, doesn’t it? Well, there’s nothing proper training can fix.”

                The angel growled. Magnus stood up and dusted his suit pants.

                “So, payment, then. I’ve got in my car, and some receipts, if you’d be so kind to sign—“

                “I’ll just take the money.”

                “What?”

                “I don’t want any kind of paper trail, you see. I’d rather just get this over with as soon as possible, you understand.”

                Magnus looked over to the angel. “If you’re sure. Just, wait here a moment, I’ll get the cash from the car.”

                Magnus left out the door. John looked over to the angel.

                “Why not just kill me?” the angel said, gasping.

                “Because this way I get something out of you.” John knelt down, squatting on his ankles. “I mean, you may as well provide some kind of use to us.”

                Magnus came back in, carrying a large duffel bag. He set it down on the ground. “Fifty grand, just like we agreed on.”

                John took the duffel bag and unzipped it. Dozens of bills bound together met him. He counted quietly to himself one hundred stacks, stuffing them back into the bag haphazardly. “It all looks good,” John said.

                “Excellent,” Magnus said. He looked over to the angel and licked his lips. “Now, um, about transportation…”

                John slowly spoke the Enochian spell he found online. He had practiced the incantation several times in the motel bathroom before he walked over to his boys’ room. The syllables were rough, and the language seemed to favor consonants over vowels. But he practiced until he was sure he got it right and remembered.

                The angel seized, muscles growing taut and then….it relaxed. Its head lolled to the side, eyes closed.

                John threw the bag over his shoulder. “That should give you a few hours. But far as I’m concerned, it’s your problem now.”

                John didn’t bother looking back. He could hear Magnus muttering to the angel, cooing over it, even.

                “Just look at you,” Magnus said. John heard him stomping out the flames. “Don’t you worry little fella, you’re gonna love your new home.”

                John checked his watch. Sunrise was near, and he had to get back to the motel before his boys woke up and noticed the car was gone.

                As he was walking out the storage unit and towards the Impala, he saw in the corner of his eyes that strange woman again, the same who one seemed to be following them. She was smiling, and it looked wrong on her face, like skin pulled tightly over bone. John stopped and turned around to get a full view.

                The woman was gone.

                John swallowed thickly.

                He told himself he was just tired, and once he got some decent sleep, he’d stop seeing things. He continued back to the car.


	16. Dean

CH 15

                “He’s fucking _gone,_ Sam!”

                “Dean, calm down—“

                “I will not calm down, we gotta get moving now—“

                “Dean!”

                Dean pulled at the skin on his scalp. Sam was placating him, he knew that, talking in that hushed tone of voice, the way he had his hands outstretched, palms forward. Sam had a warning in his eyes.

                Dean swallowed.

                “How do we know that he’s missing and not just gone somewhere?”

                “Yeah, because Cas just takes morning strolls all of a sudden.”

                “Let’s just not jump to any conclusions, is all I’m saying.”

                “What other conclusion is there to draw? Cas got angel napped right under our noses.”

                “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

                Dean groaned and stalked over to Sam’s laptop. He pulled open the GPS tracker and entered Cas’s number. It loaded for a moment before an error message appeared.

                “Damn it! I knew I should have put a tracker in his freaking shoes!”

                “Okay,” Sam sighed from over Dean’s shoulder. “Okay, so we went to bed at what, ten? And he was gone before you woke up. So, somewhere between ten and six, Cas vanished. Maybe we can talk to the motel staff, see the security footage.”

                Dean exhaled. “Okay,” he said. He was so blessed to have Sam with him. Sam could keep his head on straight in the middle of a crisis. Sam could turn it off and think strategically, clearly.

                “In the meantime, let’s wake Dad up and catch him up to speed.”   

                They walked to the room where their dad was staying, just two doors down. Sam rapped on the door, calling for dad to open up. Dean was fidgeting. He picked at a piece of skin near his fingernail and tried not to think about what might have happened to Cas.

                But he couldn’t.

                Did something come into their room? Did Cas leave for whatever reason? Maybe he did leave the room, to go starwatching or some other kind of hippy shit like that, and he got jumped. It would have to be powerful, though; an angel or a demon, to be able to sneak up and overpower Cas. Dean thought of what just happened in Ohio.           While Dean’s mind raced, John opened the door right as Sam was about to knock again. It broke Dean’s train of thought for a second, and he looked to his dad and hoped. Dad told them they would find Cas the first time, and they did. Dean needed to hear John’s reassurances again, needed something other than Sam’s placations.

                “Cas is gone,” Sam said, before John could speak. “We got no clue where he is.”

                “Okay,” John said.

                “We’re gonna interrogate the front desk,” Dean said hastily. He couldn’t hold his words in, they just spilled out like water past a broken dam. “And we’re gonna go from there. Get packed.”

                Dean spun on his heels and went to the main office area. The front desk was being manned by an older women, short and a little on the heavy side. Her graying hair was in a tight bun that pulled at her aging wrinkles.

                He walked to the desk and stood there.

                “Can I help you?” she said. She smelled like cigarette smoke, and it did nothing to ease the nausea that churned in Dean’s stomach.

                Dean fumbled and pulled his badge from his breast pocket. “FBI,” he said, calmer than he was actually feeling. “I need access to last night’s security tape.”

                She blinked at him. “Where’s your warrant?”

                The blood drained from Dean’s face. “Ma’am, this is a matter of national security, I need to see those tapes, _now—“_

“Listen, buster,” she spat. “I put in my forty-five, I pay my taxes that pay your salary, and last I checked, there’s still this thing called a Constitution. Show me your warrant, and I’ll show you the tapes. I don’t gotta do anything until then.”

                Dean bit his lip, could feel his blood pressure rising. There was nothing he could do. He turned, pushing out the doors, trying to control his rage. Cas was fuck knows where, with fuck knows who, and Dean had no way to even start looking.

                Sam and John were waiting by the Impala, their bags resting on the asphalt.

                “What happened?” Sam said.

                “She asked for a warrant,” Dean said.

                Sam sighed. “Well, it was bound to happen eventually. Someone was going to have some actual knowledge of the law.”

                “Yeah, well, couldn’t it have waited until Cas wasn’t MIA?”

                “Murphy’s law.”

                “Fuck Murphy.”

                Sam gnawed on his lip. Dean groaned and rubbed a hand over his face.

                “What do we do?” Dean asked.

                “Ask around town, I guess.”

                Dean rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. “Fan-fucking-tastic.” Dean bent down at picked up his duffel and opened the trunk.

                His heart fell into his stomach. “Sam?”

                “Dean, it looks bad now, but it always looks bad, and it ends up okay—“

                “There’s a bottle of holy oil missing.”

                “ _What?”_

                Dean stared into that spot in the corner. He kept two jugs of that shit to be cautious, tucked away in the far corner, almost out of the sight.

                He was so _stupid._ One of the very few things that could hurt an angel, and Dean kept it in his car.

                “Shit,” Sam said, bending in front of Dean, digging through the trunk. “Shit, it is gone.” Sam shot straight up and pulled at his hair.

                Dean’s worry skyrocketed. Cas got away from the demons in Ohio, but the holy oil was gone.

                Dean couldn’t stop the images of Cas trapped behind flames, helpless. He was helpless behind those flames, unable to move, get away from whatever had him.

                If Dean had anything in his stomach, it would’ve spilled onto the ground.

                “Dean, breathe,” Sam commanded. Dean inhaled a shaky, wet breath. Sam moved quick, tossing both their bags into the trunk. John put his bag in the foot wells of the backseat.

                “C’mon,” Sam said. “You want me to drive?”

                Dean shook his head. He couldn’t bear it, to be stuck there in the passenger seat with just his thoughts. If he drove, at least he had the road and traffic to focus on. Something to keep his thoughts from tormenting him. “I need to drive,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

                “Okay,” Sam said. Dean felt Sam put the keys in his hand. Dean wrapped his fingers around it, the teeth of the keys biting into his skin. It was something else to focus on.

                Dean exhaled and got into the driver’s side.

                _Hang on, Cas_ , he prayed. He wanted to say something more comforting, something more concrete, but he couldn’t. In Ohio, they had something to work with. It was a shit’s worth of something, but it was more than what they had now.

                Dean fit the keys into the ignition. _Just hang on._

                He started the engine.

\--

                It was the same thing as Ohio. They drove around and Dean showed the picture of Cas, and all he got is a shrug of the shoulders and a “No, sorry”. Some people gave him a sympathetic eye and a promise of “I’ll keep my eyes peeled” and all Dean could do was give a fake smile and after the fifth time in the span of one afternoon, it hurt.

                The sun was setting, and they had only scoured half of Kansas City. Dean rested his forehead on the steering wheel. He felt Sam’s large, heavy hand on his shoulder.

                John entered in the backseat.

                “I might have something,” John said gruffly. Dean shot up and turned around over the seat to look back at his dad.

                “What?” he and Sam said.

                 Dean looked up into the rearview mirror. John’s face grew pale, and he visibly swallowed. “I haven’t been completely honest with you boys.”

                Dean snorted, despite himself. That was the understatement of the century.

                “There are…people in the community, who are less than honest.”

                “We’re all a bunch of criminals,” Dean spat. Dean couldn’t think of a single hunter that made an honest living. They lived off credit card scams and hustling; the impersonated federal officers and swindled their way into anything they could get.

                “I mean, for a hunter,” John said impatiently. “I wanted to keep you boys away from them. They’re not right in the head. They think dabbing in the supernatural is fun, a game. They…collect artifacts. And creatures.”

                The acid in Dean’s stomach curdled.

                “What?” Sam said. “You think Cas got angel napped by a collector?”

                “I was looking on the Internet,” John said, pushing his phone towards them. “These collectors use a very specific language. You have to know what you’re looking for to find it. There’s an ad that looks suspicious.”

                Dean reached back and ripped the phone out of his dad’s hands, teeth clenched hard. The phone browser was pulled up onto an electronic newspaper site. The ad Dad was zoomed in on was the smallest on the entire page.

                _Heavenly items for sale! Find the artifacts of your wildest dreams!_

There was an address listed below. Dean recognized it as Topeka, Kansas.

                Dean pulled his lips between his teeth. Maps of the Interstate system pulled up in his mind. Topeka was just a little more than an hour away. And Cas vanished at who the hell knows when sometime in the middle of the night. Someone could have nabbed him and taken him to Topeka by now easily.

                “I don’t understand,” he said, unable to peel his eyes away from the tiny screen. “I mean, how would someone get the jump on him to begin with?”

                “Maybe someone saw him while we were finishing the hunt,” Sam said. “Not to mention…”

                “What?” Dean snapped.

                Sam cleared his throat. “I mean, Cas isn’t exactly subtle.”

                Dean wanted to argue, but he had to bite it back. Sam wasn’t wrong. Cas did stand out in a crowd, and not always in a good way. He said the wrong things, and made more than one pair of eyebrows rise. There was a reason Cas didn’t do any of the interviews unless they had no other choice. Cas understood emotions better than he used to, but in the face of conflict, he didn’t always know how to respond to them, especially the emotions of other people.

                He thought of the waitress the other night, and how Cas just casually said “I don’t sleep”. The waitress thought it was a joke, but what if Cas had said that to someone else who knew about angels and demons?

                “So, what, Cas got nabbed by a human?”

                “A jug of holy oil is missing,” Sam said.

                “Yeah, I know that!” Dean snapped.

                “The jug from the trunk,” Sam said slowly.

                Dean looked at Sam. Sam groaned and rolled his eyes.

                “The trunk with the demon trapped drawn on it.”

                It all clicked into place. “Oh,” Dean said quietly.

                “A demon couldn’t have taken it,” Sam said. “It would’ve been trapped the moment it put its hand inside. So, we’re looking at a human or angel.”

                “C’mon, Sam,” Dean said. “A _human,_ really? Cas wouldn’t let himself be overpowered by a human.”

                “If he was being threatened with holy fire, who knows what would happen? Look. I’m worried too. But it doesn’t look like we have anything else to go on. It’s only an hour away. We should at least check it out, if it doesn’t pan out, we’ll come right back here, okay?”

                Dean swallowed a painful lump. His fingers curled tightly around the phone. “I don’t like it,” he said.

                “Me neither. But we don’t have much of a choice.”

                Dean swallowed a scream and banged his head against the steering wheel.

                “Well?” John said. “Are we gonna get going or not?”

                Dean sighed and handed the phone back to his dad. Sam was right; it was just an hour’s drive. But was it an hour Cas had? He had already been missing for almost twelve hours now. A lot could happen in that amount of time.

                A lot could happen in an hour.

                Dean swallowed and put the car into gear.


	17. Castiel

CH 16

                Castiel awoke to a throbbing pain in his head. He peeled his eyes open and groaned, curling his fingers into the scratchy material beneath him.

                The room was dark and smelly.

                Castiel swallowed and gasped for breath. He pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at the electricity that shot through his leg. He reached for the injury, only then realizing he was no longer handcuffed. His pants had been rolled up past his knee, which was bound in a tight bandage. Castiel massaged at his knee, resting his head back on the stone wall.

                He assessed.

                He was no longer handcuffed, but his grace was still blocked. Castiel’s eyes scanned every inch of the room. He had been laying on a thick blanket stuffed into the far corner, but there didn’t appear to be anything else in the room. The room was slightly smaller than the typical motel room Sam and Dean rented; except there were only three walls. Where the fourth should’ve been were several metal bars, tall and close together. Castiel looked to the ceiling and saw the different binding sigils painted in blood. He was caged.         

Castiel sighed. He touched his head and could not feel the blood that had been there earlier. In fact, his hair was slightly damp. It had been washed. He wasn’t sure it was more comforting than the opposite.

                He felt like a fool. Part of him was still in disbelief. Maybe this was all just a horrendous dream. (Angels don’t dream. They don’t sleep. But surely those were the more likely options?). He had trusted John Winchester, believed in him like Sam and Dean hadn’t. He couldn’t understand why this had happened.

                But he could still feel the barrel of the gun colliding with his temple, could taste the copper of the blood that filled his mouth, feel the heat of the fire inches from his fingertips. All the while, John Winchester leering over him, that dreaded weapon in his hand, screaming with each collision “What have you done to my boys?”

                His eyes burned, but he did not allow any tears to fall. He had misread the situation. Terribly so, it appeared, but he had. He did that often. It was why Dean rarely let Castiel partake in the interview portion of hunts. He had, as Dean said, ‘no social graces’.

                Had he somehow offended John? But no, that didn’t make sense. John seemed to believe Castiel had put some sort of spell over Sam and Dean. He thought Castiel posed a threat to them.

                Castiel dug his nails into his palm.

                Did Sam and Dean know what happened to him yet? Would they ever?

                If they did, would they care? Castiel was an ally, their family; yet John was their _father._ If the boys had to choose between him and John…

                And who was the man that had taken him? He was a man, Castiel knew that much. One who clearly had extensive knowledge about angels, judging by the intricate sigil work. Castiel hadn’t seemed many of them in centuries. He had to have brought Castiel here; had gone through the trouble of restraining him. He would be back. Maybe he could provide answers.

               

                Castiel waited.

\--

                He did not enjoy sleep. He did understand how Sam and Dean looked forward to hours of total unconsciousness. How did you protect yourself in such vulnerability? How did you know you would wake up? He feared slipping into slumber, into nothingness, and staying there. Angels don’t dream; sleep was akin to death. He had slept again unintentionally, out of boredom he suspected, and when he came back into consciousness, it was to the sound of metal clacking and moaning.

                It was the man from the warehouse. He opened the bars narrowly, just enough to shove himself through. He smiled widely at Castiel, revealing his straight, white teeth.

                “You’re awake,” he said. He walked towards Castiel. His footsteps echoed in the tiny room. “That’s good. I was beginning to worry. How’s your knee? That bullet sure was tricky to pull out.” He knelt down and reached out to touch the bandage.

                Castiel pulled his knee away, biting on his lip to ignore the bolt of pain the movement brought.

                The man clicked his tongue. “Bit gun shy, are we? That’s okay. I know this may be very overwhelming, but you’ll get used to it. I promise. Everyone does.”

                “Everyone?” Castiel whispered.

                “Oh, yes. I have a…variety, if you will, of supernatural creatures. Werewolves, vampires, a djinn---you’re the first angel, though. Always wanted an angel.”

                “Release me now,” Castiel said through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

                The man chuckled. “Oh, darling, you can’t hurt me.”

                Castiel lunged. He went to wrap his hands around the man’s throat, but before he could get there, the man whispered a spell and Castiel was frozen. His nerves were pulled taut and felt like they were on fire. Castiel fell face forward, onto the dirty ground. He jarred his knee again and hissed in pain, wrapping his hand around it.

                “I told you,” the man said.

                Castiel shuddered. “No human should know that spell,” he whispered to the dirty floor. It was a tainted spell, hideous; it brought forth memories Castiel didn’t want, tied down with Zachariah leering over him, angel blade pressed against the ulna of Castiel’s wing.

                _Who do you serve, Castiel? Who?_

“I am not any ordinary human. I once was a part of the most secretive organization in the world—the Men of Letters. We specialized in archiving everything known about the supernatural world. I learned many things during my tenure there, about a variety of different creatures.”

                Castiel panted for breath, eyes squeezed shut.

                “Though, I must say, my specific research was mostly focused on angels. You guys are such an interesting bunch, did you know?”

                Castiel’s muscles finally relaxed. They felt like jelly, and a pained breath pressed out his lips.

                “What do you want from me?” Castiel spat.

                “I don’t _want_ to hurt you. I promise, really, you have no reason to be afraid.  I’m going to take care of you. I’m Magnus, by the way. What’s your name?”

                Castiel ground his teeth together.

                “Not going to tell me? That’s fine. All in due time. We’ll get there.” Magnus sighed. “I saved you, you know, from that man. I’m sorry he hurt you, but I promise, I won’t. Not if you behave. I’ll take good care of you.”

                Magnus exited the cell and was quick to lock if behind him. The bars clanged loudly, echoing in the small room. Castiel’s head ached with the sound. He could feel the vibrations through the floor. Magnus’s footsteps echoed down the hall. Castiel turned his ear to the ground and concentrated, listening for each step. He counted. He counted eighty-two steps before he could no longer hear them.

                He crawled back to the blanket, his knee aching with every movement.

                His breath was hot, his lungs burning. Just moving from the center of the room to the edge seemed to take every iota of his energy, and when he made it to the blanket, he collapsed. Dust billowed up from the blanket and fell onto Castiel like snow.

                He kept his eyes open and stared out past the bars, at the gray wall on the other side.

                He could feel sleep clawing at him again, desperately, and Castiel fought it. His muscles trembled. His head pounded. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this drained.

                Darkness ebbed in again. Castiel relinquished, his vision nearly taken when he heard it.

                _Castiel? You got your ears on?_


	18. Dean

CH 17

                The address from the newspaper ad turns out to be a bust. It’s a corn field, not a single building in sight.

                Dean screamed and spewed profanities to the sky, kicking at the dirt, grinding his boots into the soft soil.

                He didn’t understand. The ad said it was right here. And there was nothing here! Their only lead on Cas proved to be absolutely nothing.

                Dean walked every foot of the field just to be sure there wasn’t something he was missing; a trap door, or an invisible wall. He started at one end and made Sam walked the opposite direction, and when they met in the middle, he still passed Sam and double checked, just to be sure. John went long ways across the field, back and forth, eyes glued to the ground the entire time.

                “Dean, enough,” Sam finally said after they combed every square inch of the field. “There’s nothing here.”

                “There has to be something here,” Dean said, nearly hysterical. There had to be _something_. “If there’s not anything here, then we’ve got nothing on how to find Cas. Nothing.”

                “Look, you’ve found Cas before. Remember Purgatory?”

                Dean had to nod through the tightness in his throat. Yeah, he found Cas in Purgatory; but that wasn’t the same. He had leads on Cas in Purgatory, monsters that had seen him around, rumors of him in the winds that Dean could follow. Back in Ohio, they had the location Cas had last been seen and the knowledge that he’d been taking by the demons they were hunting.

                Here, he had _nothing._ No clue where or why or how Cas could have gone missing. It had been terrifying to wake up to a cold bed, Cas nowhere to be seen. Ever since they broke out of Purgatory, Cas had been there when Dean fell asleep and there again when he woke up.

                Dean exhaled shakily. He had to calm down. He couldn’t be any help to Cas worked up like he was. It clouded his judgement, and he did stupid things when his judgement was clouded.

                He looked up. John was leaning against the Impala, arms crossed over his chest. He had that ever familiar stern look, gnawing on his lip. Dean knew it was his dad’s “thinking” face.

                Dean went up to his dad.

                “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said somberly. “I guess I was wrong.”

                Dean sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “No, it was a good hunch. We didn’t have anything else to go on anyway. It’s just…”

                “You’re worried.”

                Dean snorted. “Bit of an understatement.”

                “You really seem to care about this angel.”

                “He’s family,” Dean said. “He’s…” Dean trailed off. He wasn’t sure if he should tell John just what Cas was to him; not even Dean could define it himself most days, but he was afraid of his father’s reaction. Dad had been pissed when he found out about Sam shacking up with Ruby, but that was different. She had been a _demon_ , and she’d been lying to Sam from the get-go. Dean’s relationship with Cas was nothing like Sam’s with Ruby.

                But…he still hesitated. Dad had been impressed with Cas, yeah, and he was definitely worried, Dean could see it in the crows’ feet that marred John’s skin; but he wasn’t ready to tell his dad about him and Cas.

                It wasn’t like it was anything bad. Really, not much had changed between them. They still bickered about stupid stuff, and Dean teased the holy hell out of Cas at any opportunity he could. They just kissed sometimes and pressed close together whenever they could. They’d barely made it to first base, for god’s sake! A lot of the time, Dean felt like a fucking middle schooler, thinking he was a hot shit for holding hands and making out and nothing else. Dean’s history was colored in one-night stands. He only had two serious relationships before, Cassie and Lisa, and even those started out with sex before they developed into something deeper.

                John raised a waiting eyebrow. Dean licked his lips.

                “He’s family,” Dean said again.

                He was aware of Sam staring at his back.

                “Well,” John said, “we protect our own.”

                Dean smiled slightly, despite the direness of the entire situation. His dad was the greatest hunter in the world. If anyone could find Cas, it would be him.

                “But where do we even start? We lost our only lead.”

                John dug into his pockets and pulled out his cellphone. “Well, I’ve been looking on the Internet, and I may have something.”

                “Dad, we don’t have time for another hunt—“

                “Hear me out, son. I get that it’s important we find Castiel, but we also have a responsibility to help people. Besides, I think this hunt may help us in both regards.”

                “Yeah, how?”

                “Got something about a ‘miracle psychic’ from Topeka. People are calling this person a conduit of God. Now you know how I feel about psychics—“

                Dean nodded numbly; Missouri Mosely was the only psychic John ever worked with, and that was only on rare occasions. John believed most psychics got their powers from some sort of demon deal, or witchcraft.

                “But maybe he can find Castiel for us.”

                “It’s…not a bad idea, Dean,” Sam said.

                “Haven’t we wasted enough time already?” Dean spat.

                “Look, a psychic might be able to help us find Cas. And if it turns out to be a case too, then we kill two birds with one stone!”

                Dean was flanked by his father and brother.

                “Fine!” he spat. “We’ll go see if little Danny Torrance can help us find Cas. But if this is another bust, we got right back to Kansas City and scour every square inch with a comb, got it?”

                “Yeah, of course,” Sam said.

                John smiled tensely. “Don’t worry, Dean. Everything will work out exactly how it’s supposed to.”


	19. John

CH 18

                John didn’t understand. He had separated the angel from Dean and Sam, the spell should’ve been broken.

                He chewed his lip as Dean drove over the speed limit to the psychic’s house. Clearly the angel was a powerful creature; maybe its spell wasn’t one that required the boys to be near it. Maybe it just was. Which was frustrating, it only made it harder for John to break it. Once again, he was fighting against an unknown enemy. How could he save his boys from an enemy he didn’t know?

                Well, he would just have to work on that one step at a time. Keep distracting his boys with hunts and long drives, they would have to forget about the angel eventually. Maybe it would take months, maybe years, but eventually the angel would erode from their memories and hearts.

                And if that didn’t work, they were witches he could consult with. Amnesia spells. Dean and Sam were suffering because they were so worried about the angel. John didn’t want his boys to suffer anymore. They had suffered enough in their still relatively short lives.

                He sighed quietly and stared at Dean, his jaw tight and foot pressed hard on the gas pedal. Dean seemed to be taking this especially hard. The boy had always been a hothead; usually it came in handy on hunts, but here it was just another hindrance. John wondered why Dean was being affected differently than Sam. Maybe the psychic could answer that; and if he couldn’t, then John could find a witch to take care of it. He wouldn’t conspire with witches under normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances.

                John would protect his family, no matter the lengths he had to go to.

\--

                The psychic did turn out to be a hunt. It took three days to track him down and discover that his miracle working was actually witchcraft; and that for every miracle he performed, he had to even it out with one atrocity. They have no way of knowing how many people he killed, but on the third day when they have him trapped and he admitted to striking a demon deal, Dean had a blade pressed to his throat—if he pushed down just any harder, he would pierce the skin.

                “How ‘bout you make a deal with me?” Dean said darkly.

                “What?” John snapped. “Dean, what the hell are you doing?” He reached out to grab Dean by the shoulder, but Dean ripped out of his grip and readjusted his stance.

                “What do you want?” the psychic babbled, pathetic tears sliding down his cheeks, a dribble of snot hanging from his nose.

                “I need your help finding my friend,” Dean said. “Can you do a scrying?”

                The psychic swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Why should I do anything for you?”

                “Are you saying you can’t do it?” Dean asked.

                “I’m saying I won’t,” the psychic said with confidence his voice didn’t match.

                “Do it or we’ll kill you,” Sam said. He stood behind the psychic, and though his eyes were hooded in fear every time he looked over at Dean, he kept his voice steady.

                “You’re just going to kill me anyway,” the psychic said.

                “Maybe, maybe not,” Dean said. “But why take the chance? It’s just your life.”

                The psychic shuddered and fell to his knees. “Do you have anything of your friend’s? A possession, a photo?”

                Dean reached into his coat pockets and pulled out an aged, folded photograph. John had to look over Dean’s shoulder to see it; it was a photo of the angel and Sam, the same one Dean had given John initially when they first had to look for the angel in Ohio.

                Dean shoved in into the psychic’s hands.

                “Work your magic,” Dean spat.

                The photo trembled in the psychic’s hands. “I need my tools,” he stuttered. Sam sighed and pulled the psychic to his feet, then shoved a hand on his back to lead him to the other side of the room, where the man kept his divination tools.

                He had the clichéd red table, and crystal ball. Sam pulled the wooden chair out roughly, causing it to scrap against the floor loudly. “Sit,” Sam said, and the psychic sat.

                Dean and John followed, putting themselves on the other side of the table.

                The psychic took the photo of Cas and laid it onto the table. He put the crystal ball on top of it and looked up to Dean; John could see the terror in his eyes.

                Truth be told, John was growing nervous. What if the psychic could find out where the angel was? His boys would want to go to its location immediately, running head first into danger. And, what if his boys found out the truth about the angel’s disappearance? If they knew John was involved, what would they do to him? His boys’ reactions to the angel’s disappearance was worrying, but they were agitated and pissed off, and the way they were treating this psychic, they weren’t treating it like they would a normal hunt. Yes, this man had killed people, but Dean and Sam were being uncharacteristically aggressive. They were shoot first, ask questions later people. This—this was crueler than just killing the bastard. If this is what his boys would do to someone who _might_ have answers, what would they do to him, who was actually responsible?

                “What’s his name?” The psychic said.

                John clenched his jaw. If this son of a bitch could find the angel, he had to come up with a new plan.

                “Castiel,” Dean said quickly.

                The psychic’s jaw twitched. He ran his hands over the crystal ball. It glowed a light blue.

                “Castiel,” he said lowly, his voice a rough growl. The ball’s glow brightened and John had to close his eyes shut at one point, as he bit into his tongue.

                Then the light died.

                The psychic’s hands trembled.

                “What happened?” Dean yelled, slamming his hands down on the table. The crystal ball shook and rattled.

                “I—“ the psychic said, eyes wild. “Don’t kill me, please, it’s not my fault—“

                “What happened?” Sam said, slower and clearer than Dean.

                “Something’s blocking me,” he said, though it was hard to understand him through his sobs. “Someone…or something…I can’t see through its magic!”

                “Do you know what kind of magic it is?” Dean asked angrily. His voice was low and deep, just barely above a whisper, but it carried a sharp edge to it. John recoiled at the sound of it; he had never heard Dean speak like that before, with such anger and power in his words.

                The psychic shook his head. “That’s all I know, I’m sorry! Wherever your friend is, he doesn’t want to be found!”

                The tension coiled out of John’s body in one long, heavy sigh. Everything was okay; his boys were still safe.

                John grabbed his gun from his holster and shot the psychic between the eyes. Sam and Dean jumped back, cursing; the psychic’s head fell to the tabletop with a loud thud, his hand hanging off the edge limply. Blood and brain matter painted the nearby walls. The crystal ball rattled and rolled off its stand, falling to ground where it shattered into thousands of tiny, sharp pieces, rocketing in every direction across the floor.

                Dean panted, his breath filling in the empty silence.

                Then: “What the fuck, Dad?” Dean said, turning around. He put a large hand on John’s chest. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

                “It’s what we came to do,” John said through his teeth. He pushed Dean’s hand away and looked his older son in the eye, refusing to glance away. John could see the fury dancing behind Dean’s eyes, the passion. He had to swallow his grief; Dean looked so much like Mary in that instance, pigheaded, self-righteous, but so determined. “He’s killed people, Dean.”

                “We needed him to find Cas!”

                John gestured to the tiny pieces of glass scattered all over the ground. He stepped on a puddle of pieces next to his boot, grinding into them for extra measure. “You heard him, Dean; He couldn’t see anything. The angel doesn’t want to be found.”

                “Cas did not run away!” Dean screamed. “Of course the fucker who has him doesn’t want him to be found! We could’ve tried something else!”

                “Dean,” John said lowly. “You need to get a hold of yourself, boy.”

                Dean gritted his teeth. He stared at John with his furious gaze for several long moments, but John did not relent.

                “I am still your father,” John said. “I am still the head of this family. You will respect me. Is. That. Clear?”

                Dean stepped back, his boots crunching on the glass pieces. His eyes glanced to the dead psychic for a brief moment, just a tiny slide, before they met John’s once more, and Dean backed up until he was barely in front of Sam.

                 John was not stupid. He saw the way Dean’s right hand stuck just barely stuck out, covering Sam. John’s brows furrowed in disbelief, and rage. He was trying to protect his boys and they still saw him as some sort of villain, something they needed to defend each other from. Their own father! Meanwhile, they consorted with angels, and would have let the murderous psychic live to kill another.

                Dean had never been so openly defiant. John could always depend on Dean to listen and do as he was told, when he was told. Seeing the one-eighty Dean seemed to have taken since John’s death all those years ago, pissed John off.

                He was only trying to protect his boys. Why couldn’t they see that?

                “Dean,” John said. “Is that clear?”

                “Yes, sir,” Dean said tensely.

                “Good,” John said. “Now, we’ll head back to the motel and rework our plan.”

                “What—“ Sam began. “What about him?” He pointed to dead psychic.

                “Burn it and move on.”


	20. Sam

CH 19

                Something wasn’t right. Something was very, very wrong.

                Dad had always been a pretty angry person. Sam’s memories of his father were always images of a permanent scowl, a stern voice, and calloused hands. They fought all the time, the worst being the night before Sam left for Stanford when his dad accused him of turning his back on the family, of pissing on his mother’s memory. That rage had soured Sam’s opinion of his Dad for a long time.

                But John seemed especially angry now, almost like he was standing on the edge of a dark abyss. Maybe it was because of Hell, how he carried it with him in his bones like Dean did. Sam was fortunate he didn’t have that, so thankful that Castiel had taken away those memories.

                Something was wrong, though. John was perpetually angry, but now he was acting cagey.

                Sam thought back to everything that had happened since his dad was brought back. Ever since Cas disappeared.

                It didn’t make sense. How could Cas have gone missing? Anything that could have snuck into the motel room would have woken him and Dean, so Cas had to have left the motel room. But why would he do that?

                And John’s solutions to try and find Cas weren’t making much sense either. John thought Cas had been kidnapped by a collector. But that seemed like such a strange theory. Sam didn’t know those kinds of people were out there, but John did, and apparently had known about for them for some time. Why hadn’t he ever told Sam and Dean about those kinds of people?

                He thought of the coldness in his dad’s eyes as he shot that psychic point blank in the head. John was right, the man had killed people; but had John been right in killing him? Especially before they could have tried another method of finding Cas? They couldn’t continue this cycle of eye for an eye. It would bite them in the ass sooner or later. And considering their luck…

                The motel room was eerily quiet. Dean was sulking, laying in the trundle bed facing the wall, re-reading _Cat’s Cradle_ for the umpteenth time. John sat on the queen bed next to the door, cleaning his guns. Sam was browsing the Internet, searching for anything that might  help them find Cas. He thought of all the possible theories for how Cas disappeared, no matter how much Sam wanted to ignore it.

                It was a possibility he had to consider. Could John be responsible for Cas’s disappearance? Sam chewed on his lips.

                John hadn’t said anything openly hostile about Cas. But sometimes he would stare at Cas in a certain way, Sam had noticed; like John wished he could kill Cas with his eyes.

                But that was just the way John looked, right? John was always pissed off. And besides, he barely spoke with Cas. He didn’t know Cas in the slightest. He wouldn’t hurt Cas, because he didn’t know Cas.

                Right?

                Sam looked up from his computer to his dad.

                There was a jug of holy oil missing from the car. Someone had to have known it was there, what it was, and what it was used for. Did John know? Sam wasn’t sure John had even come to fully accept that angels existed. How could he know about their weaknesses? How to hurt them?

                Sam shook his head. He was probably just being paranoid; projecting all his bitter feelings about his dad from the past. Dad could be a jerk, but he wasn’t _evil._

                Besides. Cas was an angel. Dad was just a man. There was no way he could overpower Cas. None.

                The image of the magicked collar came to Sam’s mind.

                He shut his laptop and pushed it to the side.

                “I’m gonna shower,” he said.

                “Thanks for the heads up,” Dad grumbled, not looking up.

                Sam grabbed his duffel off the floor and carried it into the bathroom. He turned the shower on, but just let it run while he dug through his bag. He pushed past clothing and a spare pair of shoes, digging to the very bottom. He rooted through the feeling of fabric and his throat tightened. He dug deeper, searching all around, and after a few moments of panic bubbling in his stomach, began to pull out clothing, tossing it carelessly to the ground.

                He sighed in relief when he saw the metal. Had never been so happy to see something so terrible.

                Sam pulled out the two pieces, tracing the strange symbols with his fingertips. Whatever had happened to Cas, he didn’t have this collar on. Dad couldn’t have used this collar to hurt Cas. There was nothing to worry about on that front.

                And yet…

                Sam wasn’t convinced.  

\--

                He didn’t shower. He stayed up late, long after Dean and Dad called it quits for the night. He stayed in bed, staring up at the ceiling until both Dean and Dad were snoring, and then he still waited, watching the clock change silently for a long time before he slide out of bed.

                Dad’s duffel was sitting innocuously at the foot of his bed. Sam picked it up and carried it to the bathroom.

                He dug through it, shifting past the same sorts of things he had in his bag—underwear, socks, t-shirts; Sam’s throat tightened. He was just being paranoid. There was no reason to believe John had anything to do with Cas’s disappearance. Sam laughed at himself mirthlessly; was he really so blind to his dad, that he always had to assume the worst of him?

                Sam leaned back against the bathtub.

                Then he saw it, buried at the very bottom, wadded into a messy ball.

                The sweater Cas made for Dad; the sweater that Cas gave to John, beaming like a kid on Christmas; that John took tensely and awkwardly.

                Suddenly Sam’s blood filled with ice.

                He pulled it out and his stomach churned. Some stitches were broken, loose pieces of string hanging off random parts. But that wasn’t it.

                There was a little bit of blood on. The barest hint, actually, but it stood out on the green color of the sweater, woven into the threads. It wasn’t one single spot, but little droplets spread all over, like it had splattered upwards.

                Sam covered his mouth with his hand. He felt like he was going to puke.

                He shoved the sweater back into the bag, burying it once more and zipped up the duffel.

                “This doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered. It didn’t mean anything. John could’ve gotten blood on that sweater at any time. It was the way of the hunter life. They lived in blood and booze. John shot that poor psychic just this morning, spreading blood and brain matter everywhere.

                But Sam couldn’t remember John ever wearing this sweater.

                Blood rushed in his ears.

                What was he going to tell Dean?


	21. Castiel

CH 20

                _It’s gonna be okay, Cas. We’re gonna find you. Just hang in there._

Castiel exhaled as Dean’s prayer ended. He wished Dean or Sam would pray again soon. It was the only source of stimulation he had, to lean back up against the stone wall and focus on their words, despite the content of them. The brothers were looking for him, their worry potent and pounding; but they didn’t yet seem to know that John was responsible for his disappearance.

                They would have to find out eventually, Castiel knew.

                Castiel was unsure of how long he had been gone. There were no windows in his tiny cell, and with his grace blocked, he could not track the passage of time. Had he been gone days? Weeks? He didn’t think it had been longer, but he had no way of knowing for sure.

                Magnus visited often, though, bringing food to the other creatures he had somewhere in this hallway. Castiel could hear them sometimes, snarling and attacking the bars that held them. Magnus would laugh gleefully as he gave them their food.

                Castiel still had his superior sense of smell, though. He could smell the raw meat Magnus gave the werewolf, the blood he gave to the vampire and djinn. Castiel was disgusted by it. Not the smell per se, but the implications. Where was Magnus getting the blood? Did he kill humans to feed these other creatures?

                Magnus’s footsteps grew louder. Castiel watched from his spot on his small mattress as Magnus put in the key and opened the cell door.

                Castiel often contemplated rushing the door and shoving past Magnus, but his injured knee would not allow it. It still hurt,  throbbed near constantly. He could barely put weight on it, and if he tried to take a step, it would buckle and he’d fall.

                Castiel would have to wait until his knee was better; or found an alternative way out of this cell, away from the warding, he could heal it on his own, and he could escape and find his way back to the Winchesters.

                Magnus grinned and shut the door behind him. He tucked the key into his pocket. He walked towards Castiel, standing in front of him.

                “Hello, angel,” he said. He always greeted Castiel this way. “How are you today?”

                Castiel glared at him.

                “Whew,” Magnus said, bending down. “Come on, don’t be that way. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

                “You are not my friend,” Castiel spat.

                Magnus sighed and pouted. “I don’t know why you’re fighting with me.”

                “You’re keeping me in a cage!”

                “It’s a very nice cage, though, isn’t it? Very safe.”

                “A cage is a cage.” Castiel looked to the metal bars. On the other side of them was just another concrete wall, but it was something. It was freedom. “’He that would chose safety over freedom deserves neither’”, Castiel said. He heard Sam say it once, and enjoyed it. It was a narrative of his fall from Heaven; he chose freedom over safe lies.

                Magnus’s eyes lit up in amusement. “You’re very intelligent, did you know? Not at all like the vampires, or the djinn—caught up in your baser instincts. If I didn’t know better, I could confuse you for a human!”

                Castiel drew backwards. Dean said Castiel was human in the ways that mattered; Dean said he was human in his heart. He didn’t like the way Magnus’s hungry eyes looked down at him, like Castiel was an animal.

                “You’re also so low maintenance compared to the other creatures. You don’t have to eat, don’t mess—the ideal pet, really.”

                “I am not your pet!” Castiel slammed his fist against the concrete walls. The walls rattled, vibrations shaking all the way up. Dust fell from the ceiling into their hairs. Castiel did not blink as it rained down on him, and in front of him, obscuring his vision briefly. It settled in his hair. Magnus began coughing, though, and waved his hand through the fallen debris.

                Castiel had so rarely been filled with such rage. He wanted to hurt Magnus—and that scared him. Magnus was human. Castiel was supposed to protect humans, but he wanted to hurt Magnus. He wanted to hurt Magnus so badly, his teeth ached in anticipation. Even if his grace wasn’t blocked, tottering the line between human and angel, Castiel was sure he could hurt Magnus with his brute strength. His vessel wasn’t as tall as Sam’s, or as stocky as Dean’s, but it towered over Magnus, and Dean always told him, never pick a fight with someone bigger than you.

                But Magnus knew the Forbidden Spell, one that would bring agony onto Castiel; immobilize him in pain. It was just a single word he had to whisper. He just need a second and he could disarm Castiel from his last weapon, his body.

                He was utterly trapped. Stuck. At the mercy of this madman, who Castiel knew from experience, most likely didn’t even know he was insane.

                Castiel had rarely felt so helpless.

                After the dust and debris settled, Magnus’s face soured. A horrid scorn set upon his features.

                “Look angel, I’ve been patient. I’ve been kind! Why are you so insistent on this disrespect? If it weren’t for me, you could be dead at the hands of that maniac. Have I really treated you so poorly? Did I shoot you?” Magnus gestured to Castiel’s still bandaged and aching knee. “Did I trap you in that holy fire? Beat your brains in? I’ve provided for you.”

                Castiel motioned to the many binding sigils painted on the ceiling. “Then why do you treat me like a prisoner?”

                Magnus rose to his feet. He dusted off his suit. “They will remain there until you’ve proved yourself trustworthy. Until you’ve accepted that this is your home.” Magnus walked to the bars, his footsteps heavy and echoing in the small cell. He turned to look over his shoulder.

                “You will tell me your name tomorrow morning, or there will be consequences. I thought with your intelligence I wouldn’t need to resort to such base methods, but apparently, a creature is a creature. You could use some training.”

                Castiel chewed through his lip. He tasted blood, but he never took his eyes off Magnus. Magnus opened the heavy door and slipped through it, slamming it behind him so that it rattled and echoed through the cell. He made a show of pulling the key out of his pocket and locking the doors, but Castiel still maintained burning eye contact, the kind Dean told him made people uncomfortable, with the holy anger that made him an angel of the Lord.

                As Magnus walked down the hallway, Castiel could hear the other creatures stirring, clamoring against their cage bars. The werewolf began to howl, the vampires snarling, the djinn shouting in an ancient language. Castiel wondered what other sort of creatures Magnus managed to capture. The fact he had captured what he had meant he should not be underestimated. Did he have a wraith? A demon?

                Castiel would be very surprised if he managed to capture a demon.

                But he knew so much about angels, it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t also know of demons. How to trap and restrain them.

                Castiel sighed. Without Magnus, he was alone again. And with his grace blocked the way it was, boredom truly was a torture.

                _Cas?_

                Castiel had to smile slightly, at least, at Dean’s voice.

                _Cas, we’re still looking. We don’t know what happened yet, but we will. I swear._

                Castiel laid down on his blankets, nuzzling down into the warmth, the only tangible comfort he had in this stone cold prison. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Dean to find out what happened. Either Dean would be heartbroken at learning of his father’s actions, or he would have to accept it and move on without Castiel, because John was his father. Neither outcome was desirable. Castiel didn’t want Dean to hurt in anyway.

                _I just need you to hang in there for a little bit longer. We’re gonna find you, and gank the bastard that took you. I promise._

                Castiel smiled softly. There was something soothing about Dean’s voice, especially in prayer. Something pure and genuine. Despite the circumstances, Castiel loved that Dean was so honest with him.

                And it was all Castiel had to keep himself entertained in this cold, confided prison. He listened to it like he did Dean’s heartbeat when they lay together, like it was the only sound in the world.

 


	22. Dean

CH 21

                Dean’s patience had finally worn thin. Every lead, every minuscule detail that might have led to Cas turned out to be a bust; but John kept pushing. Every time their lead turned into a dead end, John was there, waiting with a hunt, the same speech ready on his lips. They had a responsibility to help people, and if they could help, they had to.

                But Dean was so tired. Dean was sure his blood had turned to mostly coffee and booze, and he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in so long. Cas had been gone for two weeks now and they had nothing.  Worse, now Sam was acting strange. Quiet and tense in a way Sam never was, always sitting on the edge of his seat. It only added to Dean’s anxiety, and his poor heart couldn’t take much more of it.

                Dean had to take matters into his own hands now. He knew how his Dad would react, so he only told Sam what his plan was that night as they drove back from a simple salt and burn. Sam agreed, and not the reluctant agreement Dean had been expecting, but enthusiastic agreement.

                Sam had pulled up a map of the city they were in to find a cross roads, and it wasn’t until they pulled beside it that John spoke up from the backseat.

                “What are you doing?”

                “Finding Cas,” Dean said, getting out of the car. He slammed the door behind him and rooted through the trunk, tossing aside all their duffel bags. Dad had picked up an extra bag from a Salvation Army, where he kept his weapons and such things. It was heavy, heavier than the other bags that just held their clothes, and Dean tossed it aside with a grunt.

                John scrambled out of the car. “Dean, get in the car.”

                Dean found the cans of spray paint and the tiny tin box. He licked his lips and stared at his Dad.

                He didn’t care. He didn’t care about the ever present sternness in his dad’s eyes, didn’t care about the tightness of his jaw, or the way his fingers clenched into a fist.

                Dean shoved past John and gave Sam one of the spray paint cans.

                John gripped at his shoulder, and Dean shrugged out of it.

                “Are you gonna help or not?” He said, his voice carrying in the night sky. “Unless you got any other bright ideas, any other ‘hunches’ to find Cas, you help or you sit out.”

                John flinched.

                Dean painted the outer circle of the trap and while Sam worked on the more intricate details on the insides, he put together the hex box.

                They worked quietly, in practiced unison, all the while Dean aware of his father standing in the background, brooding behind them.

                “Dean,” John growled. It was a tone Dean had grown accustomed to. The same tone that screamed at him to take Sam and run; the same tone that followed him as he grew up that whispered low at night, “Look after Sam, don’t let anything happen to Sam”. The tone that beckoned him over a hospital bed, his father’s breath warm against his ear that said, “Save Sam or kill him.”

                Dean wasn’t a child anymore, though. He wouldn’t let his dad push him around anymore. Not about this.

                “Ready, Sam?” Dean said instead.

                “I think so,” Sam said. “Just gotta finish the trap.”

                “Well, let’s get to it then.”

                “Dean, listen to me,” John said. He gripped Dean’s shoulder and pressed down.

                “What?” Dean snapped. He spread the dirt over the box with his foot and stepped down on it. His boot left an imprint on the ground.

                “Knock this shit off,” John said. “Look at yourself! You’re really going to summon a demon? And do what, exactly? Make a deal?”

                “No one’s making any deals,” Dean said.

                “Then why are we doing this?”

                “Look, we know a guy. He might be able to help us with Cas.” Since the psychic turned out be such a bust, Dean had to turn to someone who actually would be at least a little bit helpful.

                “Enough!” John yelled. Dean looked at him. John was beet red in the face, jaw clenched tightly, hair beginning to stick up. “Your angel friend flew the coop. Accept that and move on.”

                “He didn’t leave!” Dean said. Fury raced through his veins. His throat felt swollen and he was so angry his skin grew warm. He looked over John’s shoulder towards Sam. Sam’s mouth was a tight, thin line.

                “What makes you so sure, Dean?” John said, quietly, but sternly. “You’ve said yourself, it flies off whenever it wants to wherever it wants.”

                “He _used_ to,” Dean said. “He doesn’t do that anymore.” Dean thought of the bitter cold nights in Purgatory, his head pillowed across Cas’s lap as he tried to obtain whatever sleep he could get, using the stupid trench coat as a blanket, practically smothered in Cas’s scent. He thought of Cas holding onto him as Dean pulled him through the portal, Cas gripped on so tightly he bruised the soft skin around Dean’s wrist.

                Then there was after Purgatory. Every night afterwards, Cas within arm’s reach, or a phone call away. Yes, Cas used to just fly off to who the hell knows where. But that was before. Before Dean and Sam ever gave him a reason to stay. Before they made it known that he was a Winchester, and he was wanted, and loved. Before he and Dean…

                That was before a lot of things.

                “And what do you mean by ‘it’?” Dean asked. Cas wasn’t an ‘it’. Dean’s temples were throbbing. It was getting hard to breathe.

                “Guys,” Sam said suddenly, stepping into the small space between Dean and John. His back was pressed against Dean’s chest. Dean swallowed and felt like he was choking on air. “Look, we can hash this out later. Dad, we’re doing this, whether you like or not.”

                “You’re ordering me around now?”

                “ _Yes,_ ” Sam growled. The animal nature of the sound shocked Dean. He had seen Sam and Dad square it off too many times to count, but something about this felt different than any of the others. Sam had never been afraid to stand up to John, or cuss him out, but there had always been that line before of parent and child. It didn’t matter what Sam thought, what he wanted, because Sam had always been just a kid and John had been the adult, the boss.

                Sam wasn’t a kid anymore, though. Dean saw and was proud of the man his brother had grown to be.

                “You want to know why?” Sam continued. “Because we _know_ what we’re doing.”

                “You’re going to summon a demon!” John snarled.

                “Yeah, we are,” Sam said. “We’re going to summon a demon to save Cas, because he’s family. We’re not going to make a deal. We’re not endangering innocent lives.”

                “You don’t know that—“ John said through his teeth. He was seething now, Dean was nearly expecting to see stream roll out his father’s ears. John had a temper. Dean knew this about his dad; but his dad had always been a generally angry person and Dean had accumulated much of it into John’s personality. He could count on one hand the number of times he actually ever saw his dad _pissed._ It had terrified him as a child, and still sent chills down his spine now, seeing it again for the first time in literal years.

                He wondered for a moment if he should step in, separate Sam and John before it escalated. But his mind was reeling still and he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t understand why John was reacting this way now. He’d been just as concerned about finding Cas as Dean and Sam were.

                “We’ve dealt with this guy before,” Sam said.

                “ _What?_ You’ve worked with this demon before and you didn’t get rid of it?”

                Sam shrugged. Dean was impressed by the nonchalance. “He’s a good informant. And this is going to happen, whether you like it or not. So you can either stay here and be a man about it, or wait in the car.”

                Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut; all the air escaped out of him. He looked past Sam to his Dad and caught his father’s slack jaw response.

                Sam pushed his way past and shook the can of spray paint and connected the circle. The ground shook mildly, and in a puff of sudden smoke, Crowley appeared, scowling and teeth gritted so hard they looked like they should be cracked.

                “Careful,” Dean said. “It might stick that way.”

                “You—“ Crowley said, stepping forward, only to be snagged back by the trap. “Bullocks! What the bloody hell do you two want _now?_ ”

                “Good to see you too,” Sam said. He nodded towards John. “Dad, this is Crowley. Crowley, this is Dad.”

                “Oh, fantastic, another fucking Winchester walks the Earth. Are you going to pick up a shift in fucking over the world too?”

                “I can take a shift in express mailing you back to Hell,” John said. He began to say the exorcism, but Dean cut him off.

                “We’re not exorcising him!” Dean snapped.

                “Yes, we wouldn’t want to be a hypocrite, would we Dean?” Crowley said.  “When was the last time you exercised? Starting to look a little chubby, darling. Or is that just you getting old?”

                “Fuck you.”

                “You seem to have me confused with your pet angel. Speaking of which…”

                “That’s why we need you,” Sam said. He put his hands up in a deflating gesture. “Look, Cas disappeared a few weeks ago and we have no clue where he’s gone to.”

                “Do I look like an angel catcher to you, Moose? That’s what happens when you don’t keep them on leashes, you know.”

                “Can you find him or not?” Dean snapped.

                “The question is why would I? Castiel and I are not on friendly terms, in case you’ve already forgotten how he massively fucked me over the last time we worked together.”

                “Because if you don’t help us, I’ll gank your ass right here,” Dean said, pulling the demon knife from his belt loop. He pointed it just barely over the edge of the devil’s trap, and the silver glinted in the moonlight. Crowley stared at it for a moment before sighing in boredom. He glanced down at his fingernails.

                “Put that thing away before you hurt yourself, darling. I think it’s safe to say that we all know what an empty threat that is. If you need me so badly to find your pet angel, you won’t kill me.”

                Dean ground his teeth together.  Crowley had him there. “I can still cut a couple of your fingers off.”

                Crowley’s eye slide away from Dean towards John. He tilted his head slightly. John tensed besides Dean, knuckles cracking.

                “What’re you looking at, demon?” John growled.

                “Very peculiar,” Crowley said. His eyes were constantly moving, from Dean, to Sam, to John, to the trap, and sky and car. His body never moved, but his eyes were wild. “You’re not supposed to be alive. Well, neither are Sam and Dean. And Castiel, if we’re going to be precise. None of you lot are supposed to be alive and yet you are—“

                “Stop rambling, demon!”

                “You say that like it’s a bad thing, but it’s really not. Being a demon has many perks, I’ll have you know. Invincibility, for one thing.” His eyes slide down to the blade still shining in Dean’s hands. “Well, near-invincibility. X-ray vision. Teleportation is very useful as well—“

                “Get on with it, Crowley,” Sam said.

                “Moose, didn’t your daddy ever teach you that it’s rude to interrupt?” He looked off to the far right. Dean followed his gaze to where their bags were laying just a few feet away, in between the car and devil’s trap. Crowley raised a hand and looked back to John.

                “I think you boys are asking the wrong people the wrong question.”

                “Crowley, I don’t want to play any of your freakin’ mind games, okay?” Dean said, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Just, just, blip around and tell us where Cas is, that’s all we want.”

                “It seems your daddy’s also failed to teach you about patience. Johnny, I’m going to presume that one belongs to you?”

                Sure enough, Crowley was pointing to the beat up red duffel their dad had found in a Salvation Army.

                Before anyone could say anything else, Crowley said, “I did mention x-ray vision as a perk, didn’t I?” He snapped his fingers and the zipper on John’s duffel came undone.

                Several wads of dollar bills stuck out, wrinkled, but bound in rubber bands. Dean’s breath hitched in his throat. His feet were glued to the ground, but Sam raced to the bag and fell to his knees, digging. It wasn’t just money on top—the entire bag was stuffed full of it.

                “Holy shit,” Sam said, holding wads tightly in his hands. “There’s gotta be at least fifty thousand dollars in here.”

                “Dad, where the hell did you get all that?” Dean said. Crowley clicked his tongue.

                “Oh, I really am going to have to spell it out for you boys, aren’t I?” he said. His eyes slide back to John and Dean’s followed. A murderous storm brewed behind John’s eyes.

                “Squirrel, if you rub all two of your brain cells together you might be able to put it together. Daddy mysteriously appears, your boy toy mysteriously disappears, your father just _happens_ have tens of thousands of dollars hiding in an old camp bag. Come on, Dean. Even _you_ can’t be that stupid.”

                And then it clicked in his brain, and Dean’s breath was trapped in his lungs. His fist connected with John’s nose and he didn’t realize what he was doing until he heard the sick crunching noise and his knuckles throbbed, and by then it was too late.

                “You _sold_ him?” Dean raged. Blood raced down from John’s crooked and something about the sight seethed inside Dean and he wanted to hit his dad again. He socked John’s left cheek, sending his father straight to the ground. Ecstasy coursed his veins, and it terrified Dean how much he enjoyed it.

                Sam raced towards him and wrapped his arms around Dean’s torso tightly, muttering something Dean couldn’t hear over the sound of rushing blood that filled his ears.

                Oh fuck, oh fuck. John said all those things about fucking collectors, but Dean never…His dad _sold_ Cas. Like a fucking spare part. Nausea rolled Dean’s stomach and he was able to wiggle out of Sam’s grip just before he vomited on the ground. His nose burned and his mouth tasted acidic, but he vomited until he was dry heaving and trembling, despite the humid night air making his brow sweaty.

                Of all the things he imagined happening to Cas, this was not one he ever would have considered. Demons, angels, getting lost in space—possibilities that made sense. This? And by his dad?

                Sam was rubbing soothing circles into Dean’s back. Dean raised his head, unable to stare at the mess he made, and met his dad’s eyes.

                He didn’t understand. His dad and Cas were getting along better than Dean ever could have imagined. And John had seemed just as concerned as Dean and Sam about Cas’s whereabouts and wellbeing. And now Dean had to accept that his dad had lying the entire time? His dad was responsible for Cas’s disappearance?

                “Look at you,” John said, spitting a wad of blood onto the ground. “Getting worked up like this over a monster.”

                “Cas is not a monster!”

                “It put some kind of spell you, both of you. I thought separation would break it, but I realize now that the magic that thing used is far stronger than I anticipated.” He turned to Crowley. “You, demon. What can break the spell that thing put on my boys?”

                Crowley huffed. “Well, I see where you two get your brains,” he said to Sam and Dean. “There is no spell. Dean and Castiel are in wuv,” Crowley smirked.

                “Where is he?” Dean said, voice hoarse and shaky. He wanted to scream, but he had to force it out in a rough whisper and could barely hear himself.

                He thought of all the new horrible possibilities, the implications of what his dad had really done. Thinking that Cas had been jumped and taken had been horrible, but it wasn’t necessarily a new occurrence (and wasn’t that a fucked up sentiment?). Dean knew how to deal with that.

                He didn’t know what to think of this. How to process it. What kind of sick fuck would just buy an angel? At least with demons, their motivations weren’t entirely foreign; violence for the sake of violence, hurting people just because they could. Dean didn’t want to think about what was happening to Cas, in the hands of whatever maniac his dad sent Cas gift-wrapped in. 

                He was going to be sick again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to vomit. He gagged and spat on the ground.

                “Answer him,” Sam said lowly, in a tone Dean rarely ever heard. Dark, near monstrous almost, something primal and insidious. Sam hooked an arm underneath Dean’s armpit and pulled him up. Dean’s knees buckled and he had to lean onto Sam to stay upright. “Where is Castiel?”

                John snarled. “I don’t know.”

                “What do you mean you don’t know?” Dean said, near hysterical now. His eyes burned.

                John inhaled through his mouth. “I don’t know where the angel was taken. Frankly, I don’t care. The further away from us, the better, far as I’m concerned.”

                “Can I go, please?” Crowley said. “I’ve got better soap operas I can watch. The characters are actually likeable. They learn from their mistakes.”

                “Shut up!” Sam and Dean yelled.

                Crowley put his hands up in mock surrender. “At least have the courtesy to bring snacks next time.”

                “Who did you give Cas to?” Sam said.

                Dean imagined the fucker whoever he was, and his rage increased. He felt his heartbeat increase, felt the temperature change underneath his skin. He was going to skin that fucker alive—

                “No,” John said. “No, I’m not telling you. You may not see it, but I’m trying to protect you boys—“

                Sam punched John in the ribs. John knelt over, arms crossed protectively. He wheezed, his lungs rattling.

                “Protect us? When did you _ever_ protect us?”

                “You ungrateful—“

                “Were you protecting us when you ditched us in motel rooms for weeks at a time with just forty dollars? Were you protecting us when you made us change schools every six months? What about when you missed my Honor Roll dinner because you drug Dean to a vampire hunt? You might have protected other people, Dad, but you never protected us.”

                Sam stepped forward, towering over his father, eyes dark and hooded.

                “Who has Castiel?”

                John stared. “Magnus,” he said eventually, spitting blood. “Called himself Magnus. That’s all I know.”

                Dean shoved himself to his feet and turned to Crowley. “You know him?”

                “Do I look like a bloody telephone book to you?”

                “ _Find him_.”

                Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Calm down, Dean—“ he was saying, but Dean couldn’t hear anything else Sam said, his mind was racing too fast, his heart pounding too heavy.

                “Dean, Dean, you’re going to pass out, deep breaths, that’s it.”

                Dean swallowed cold air and bit his lip. He closed his eyes and focused on Sam, focused on Sam’s words. Sam was exaggerating deep inhales, deep exhales, and Dean struggled to follow along. He felt like he was choking in air.

                “Crowley,” Sam snapped. “Get on it.”

                “What’s in it for me?”

                “Do it and we won’t summon you and kill you. Deal?”

                Crowley smacked his lips. “You drive a hard bargain, Moose. Fine. Deal. I’m not kissing you, though. And,” he pointed to the red paint on the ground.

                Sam dug the boot of his heel into the dirt and broke the line. Crowley vanished.

                Dean spun around and stalked to the Impala, Sam just inches behind.

                “Dean,” John said.

                Dean picked up his duffel and stared into John’s, the seemingly bottomless pool of money. His head spun looking at it, acknowledging what it meant.         

                He was a complete idiot. There had to have been something he overlooked, some sign that his dad was responsible for all this…and Dad had been leading them away. Dean threw his duffel into the backseat of the car and got in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, Sam was in the passenger seat, shoving his bag over the backseat.

                Dean drove. He was vaguely aware of his dad screaming after them, as best as his broken nose would allow. Dean slammed on the gas, not even turning on the radio.

                The following silence was torturous.


	23. Sam

CH 22

               

                “It’s not your fault, Dean,” Sam said after they had been driving for half an hour. It was the first thing anyone had said since they got in the car and Dean blared the music, eyes locked forwards onto the road. “If anything, it’s my fault.”

                He found the sweater and didn’t say anything; stuck it back into John’s duffel and tried to pretend he hadn’t seen it. He brought John’s duffel back into the motel room, put it back where he found it and went to back to bed. Sam watched John’s every movement from that point on, hung onto every word John said, but he kept quiet. Because he didn’t want to believe that his dad would actually…The evidence was just circumstantial…

                “Shut up,” Dean said.

                “No, really. I thought Dad was acting cagey about Cas, but I didn’t…”

                “I thought they were getting along,” Dean said.

                Sam looked over at Dean and worried his bottom lip. He loved his brother, but god, Dean could be pigheaded when he wanted to. Seriously? Dad and Cas never spoke more to each other than necessary. Cas may not understand social nuances at the best of times, but how could Dean be that blind? Sam thought of when Cas gave John that sweater he knitted; how forced John’s smile had been, how cautiously he took it, as though it was going to bite him.  How could Dean have seen that and thought they were getting along?

                “Um,” Dean said. “Did I make a mistake? Back there?”

                “Leaving him? No,” Sam said. “It’s what I would have done.” Plus, punched him one more time just for the hell of it.

                “I just…” Dean swallowed heavily. “I can’t believe…”

                “It’ll be okay, Dean,” Sam said. “We’ll find him.”

                Sheesh, he was saying that a lot lately. Maybe Dean was right; maybe Cas was magnetic to trouble.

                But this was on him. He knew that Cas and Dad weren’t really getting along, but he ignored it. He wanted his family to be together again. He knew things weren’t making sense. And all the evidence was stacked against John, but he wanted to believe that his dad was trying to be good, like he promised. And he let that cloud the severity of the situation. He failed Dean and Cas.

                “Magnus,” Dean muttered. “What kind of name is that?” Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. The headlights reflected off the Interstate. The silence was pulsating.

                “We should head back to Kansas City,” Sam said. “It’s our best bet.”

                “We didn’t have squat the first time around.”

                “Crowley has to look. He’ll tell us when he finds something out.” Sam realized then that he lied to his dad; they made a demon deal after all.

                 At least nobody sole  their souls. They were learning some lessons.

                “He better find something fast,” Dean said.

                “Crowley’s a dick, but he does what he says he’ll do.”

                “Yeah, king of hell’s more trustworthy than our dad. Fuck.” Dean’s jaw clicked.

                “You want me to drive?” Sam wasn’t sure why he asked. He knew the answer. He always knew the answer.

                Dean shook his head. “I can’t think about it.” Then, Dean reached for the radio and hit play on the tape deck.

                “Yeah,” Sam said. He swallowed. He looked out the windshield, tried to focus on the vibrations of the music rumbling through the car. Most people might not be able to relax or sleep to _AC/DC_ , but Sam had grown up in the backseat of this car with this same music playing. It had some sort of conditioning effect on him. Sam teased Dean about his music tastes, and even though Sam wasn’t a fan of the classic rock genre, he couldn’t deny that it relaxed him. He spent hundreds of hours in the backseat, crisscrossing the Continental United States, falling asleep to his dad’s music collection.

                He was nodding off when his cell phone began to ring.

                Sam’s head snapped up so fast, he pulled a muscle in his neck. He hissed and rubbed at the sore spot with one hand, digging into his pant pocket with the other. He saw Dean’s eyes shift to him hastily before retreating back to the road.

                “Shit,” Sam said, staring at the Caller ID. “I can’t believe him.” He ignored the call, and set his phone on the middle seat.

                “He called?”

                “He’s got some nerve, doesn’t he?”

                “Yeah.”

                Sam’s phone pinged. Sam resisted groaning and checked his phone again. This time, Dad had sent a text message.

                _Call me._

“I can’t believe I was so stupid,” Dean said.

                “We were all stupid,” Sam said, deleting the text message.

                “I was so happy that Dad was back.”

                “Me too.”

                “It just…I don’t know how I didn’t see it. It seems so clear now. All this time I thought Dad was impressed by how badass Cas was, and really…”

                “It was just proving to Dad that Cas is a threat.”

                “I mean, he thought Cas put a spell on us, for crying out loud! A spell to make us like him.”

                Sam’s phone pinged again.

                _Is what the demon said true? Is Dean in love with it?_

“We should call Charlie,” Sam said. He deleted the message. “Magnus is probably a fake name, but maybe she can dig something up while we wait for Crowley.”

                Dean exhaled. A bit of the tension uncoiled from his shoulders. “That’s a good idea. Charlie’s a wizard.”

                Sam smiled slightly and pulled up Charlie’s contact information. “Hopefully she won’t be too pissed I’m calling her at this hour.”

                He put the phone to his ear. It rang, and rang, and rang. Sam worried that she wouldn’t pick up. They need to utilize every second they could to find Cas.

                The phone rang and rang, and just when Sam thought it was going to go to voicemail, it stopped. He heard the sound of empty air, and then—

                “Wassit?” groggy, slurred.

                “Charlie,” Sam said, sighing in relief. “It’s Sam. I am so sorry to wake you at this hour, but we’ve got an emergency.”

                Charlie moaned sleepily. “How major?”

                “Pretty major. Cas got nabbed.”

                There was a crash, and a distant swear. Scuffling, rumbling. “Shit, sorry, dropped the phone,” Charlie said breathless. “Seriously? When?”

                “About two weeks ago,” Sam said, wincing.

                “Two weeks? You’re just now telling me?”

                “We didn’t know anything until now. Charlie, listen, I need you to use your magic. See if you can dig up anything on a person called “Magnus”.”

                “Magnus? That sounds like something out of _Harry Potter_.”

                “Don’t disagree with you there,” Sam said. “We last saw Cas in Kansas City, Missouri. We’re heading back that way now.”

                “I’m on it,” Charlie said. “What should I be looking for?”

                “This guy is able to contain Cas somehow, so he has knowledge about the supernatural. Search for suspicious bank withdrawals too.”

                Sam’s stomach churned. Dad had sold Cas for fifty-thousand dollars.  That’s how much Dad decided Cas’s life was worth.

                Sam had to comfort himself with the fact that this Magnus person wouldn’t pay for Cas just to kill him. For this Magnus person, Cas was probably some kind of trophy. And as sick as that was to think about, it was also comforting. Wherever Cas was, he was probably okay, physically.

                Sam heard the familiar sound of computer keys clacking. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?”

                “I’m not.”

                “Sam.”

                Sam wanted Charlie’s help, and he knew Charlie wanted to help. But she was still ultimately a civilian; innocent and ignorant. Sam wanted her help, but he also wanted to keep her safe.

                “Trust me, Charlie,” Sam said. “I’m telling you everything you need to know.”

                Charlie sighed. “Okay. I’ll call you when I find something. How’s Dean holding up?”

                Sam glanced over unconsciously. Dean’s eyes were stuck to the road.

                “As you expect,” Sam said.

                “Keep an eye on him. I’ll keep an eye out for Castiel.”

                “Thanks, Charlie.”

                “You owe me big time for cutting into my beauty sleep.”

                Sam was met with the dial tone. He curled his fingers around his phone case.

                He had another text from his dad.

                _Did Dean sleep with the angel?_

Sam choked. Blood rushed straight to his face and he had to concentrate hard to control his breathing.

                The car swerved slightly. “You okay?”    

                Sam inhaled through his nose. “Fine. I’m fine.”

                “What is it?”

                “You don’t want to know.”

                “Anything that’ll help us find Cas?”

                “No.”

                Dean pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.

                Five hours passed without them saying anything else; just Dean angrily changing tapes every time one finished.

 


	24. Dean

CH 23

               

 _Hang in there, Cas_ Dean kept praying. It began to feel annoyingly repetitive, even inside his own mind; but he couldn’t make himself pray anything different. His mind was divided between his prayers and the road. He didn’t know what else to say. Part of him was still so enraged by what happened, and he didn’t want that anger to trickle down to Cas.

                He thought Dad had changed. Dad promised he would change.

                Dean was supposed to protect Cas, and instead, Dean put him in the worst kind of danger. What kind of maniac _bought_ supernatural creatures? And for what purpose? The possibilities were horrifying, and Dean forced himself into his mantra of a prayer to not think of them.

                He should’ve never forgiven his father. Should’ve sent him out on the streets when he first showed up in that hotel room. Dean hated, despised, his father for the things he said about Sam all those years ago. He thought those were unforgivable, and it was the ultimate of dick moves for his dad to put that kind of responsibility on him.

                This…

                John put Sam and Dean in all sorts of danger, but he never sent them gift-wrapped into enemy territory. This was…

                Dean swallowed.

                And now they had to find out the truth from Crowley. That hurt. Dean felt like a knife had been plunged into his gut, because he never would have ever guessed the truth. How far away would Dad have led them? How long would they have gone on this wild-goose chase, while Cas was holed up who-the-hell knows where, suffering what kind of torture? Dean spent a year searching for Cas in Purgatory, going on virtually nothing, and he found him. Dean would find him again. Dean would never have given up, but John wouldn’t let them ever find out what happened. That he was responsible. How long would Dean have gone, not having a single clue what happened to Cas, but driving his assailant around the country?

                _Just hang in there._

When the sun began to break over the horizon, Charlie called.

                “I can’t find anything on a ‘Magnus’,” she said over the speakerphone. “But, someone named Cuthbert Sinclair withdrew over fifty thousand dollars from four different banks in one afternoon.”

                “So, this is our guy?”

                “I doubt it.”

                “Why?” Sam asked.

                “According to my research, dude’s like, over eighty years old. You think an eighty year old would get the jump on Cas?”

                “Hardly anything gets the jump on Cas,” Sam sighed. “We’ve got zilch, though, so we’ll look into anything we can get.”

                “Well, this guy’s got some secrets. I can’t find anything on him—employment history, tax records, a mortgage. Just a couple of bank accounts. I think he has a few offshore accounts too. Dude’s loaded. Like, wipe your butt with Benjamins loaded.”

                Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, well, can’t imagine he earned any of it legitimately.”

                Buying angels from strangers couldn’t be the most lucrative of businesses.

                “You got an address?” Sam said.

                “No,” Charlie said. “But he did withdraw the fifty thousand from banks around Kansas City. That any help?”

                It wasn’t new information, but it did at least give some strength to their assumptions. “You’re awesome, Charlie,” Sam said.

                “Yeah, I am.”

                “We’ll keep you posted.”

                “You better.”

                Charlie hung up, the dial tone filling in the empty space in the car.

\--

                Crowley called them just under an hour later. Dean figured he should be horrified that Crowley had Sam’s cellphone number somehow, but that was a panic attack for another day.

                “You boys in KC yet?” He asked.

                “Not yet,” Sam said.

                “Well, you better put the pedal to the metal and get on it. I want this over as fast as possible.”

                “Us too,” Sam said impatiently. “We don’t like working with you either.”

                “Sam, I’m hurt. I thought we had something special.”

                “Cut the crap, Crowley!” Dean shouted. “Did you find something or not?”

                “Patience, Squirrel. Good things come—“

                “To those who take it for themselves,” Dean interrupted.

                “Hmm,” Crowley said. “Some things are better explained in person. Especially for you, darling. Conversing over the phone might be too difficult for your tiny brain to comprehend. Call me when you’re in Kansas City. I’ll meet you there. Boy, this story—it’s one for the books.”

                Crowley hung up. Dean slammed on the steering wheel and cursed. “Goddamn Crowley! Bastard!”

                “Yeah,” Sam said. He sighed. “You want me to take a shift? You look like shit.”

                Dean felt like shit. He was so exhausted, having survived off caffeine and alcohol these last two weeks, barely sleeping even when he took more than the recommend dose of Nyquil, too fitful to relax, mind reeling a mile a minute with worry. His mouth still tasted of vomit, and his stomach was empty and hurting; but the thought of food made him ill.

                But it was better than the alternative, sitting there in the passenger seat, just staring out the window, nothing to occupy his mind. He had responsibilities when he drove; to Sam, the other drivers, Baby.

                “I’m good,” he said.

                “You don’t look good.”

                “I have to drive,” Dean said. His teeth ached.

                “You have to take care of yourself too,” Sam said.

                Dean snorted. He would take care of himself when they found Cas. Until then, Dean’s wellbeing was far below the priority.

                “Don’t ask again,” Dean said.

                He pushed just a little further down onto the gas pedal, racing past a sign that read _Kansas City 120 Miles._

They pulled into a motel room just over two hours later. Dean’s back ached. Sam pulled both their duffels out of the trunk while Dean went to get a room, and the moment Sam closed the door behind him, Dean said, “Call him.”

                Sam let the duffels drop into the ground and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Crowley? Hey, we’re in Kansas City.” Sam listed off the address and room number of the motel.

                Crowley appeared before Sam finished hanging up.

                “Hello, boys,” Crowley said, smirking. “Don’t you look just awful,” he said to Dean.

                “What do you know?” Dean said, scowling.

                Crowley moved from behind Sam and sat on the edge of the bed. “Have you boys ever heard of the Men of Letters?”

                Sam and Dean exchanged a confused look.

                “Of course you haven’t,” Crowley sighed. “They were a secret, world-wide organization dedicated to documenting and archiving the supernatural. Similar to hunters, except they were scholars, not dirty hillbillies.”

                “What’s this got to do with Cas?” Dean snapped.

                “Trust me, Winchester, it’s all connected. Shut up and listen.”

                Sam gave Dean a pointed look. Dean sat down on the opposite bed and crossed his arms over his chest.

                “The American sector of the Men of Letters disbanded back in the 1950s. Well, not disbanded so much as they were…completely annihilated.”

                “They all died?” Sam asked.

                “All but one.”

                “Cuthbert Sinclair?” Sam said.

                Crowley frowned. “How do you know that name?”

                Sam shrugged. “We have our own secret sources,” he said.

                Dean frowned. Charlie said that the Sinclair guy was in his eighties. But if he had been a part of this organization back in the fifties, that would put him at the right age.

                “Hm,” Crowley huffed. “There’s a lot you still don’t know,” Crowley said, with the same snide as always. “Your Cuthbert Sinclair, AKA Magnus, has been a…bit of a rival of mine, for quite some time now.”

                “You _know_ him?” Dean screamed, red in the face. All this time they’d been looking for this douchebag, and Crowley had known him? Dean couldn’t but wonder if they made a mistake in trusting Crowley (of course it was a mistake to trust him, he was a fucking _demon_ , how did they forget that?). What if Crowley had been in on Cas’s disappearance from the beginning? It was a possibility Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered before. Ever since the whole Purgatory debacle, Crowley had it out for Cas in a way he didn’t Sam and Dean. When Cas had amnesia and was living as Emmanuel, Crowley had minions staking out the house, trying to catch him.

                Of course, that was the flaw in the plan, Dean supposed. Crowley would want to be the one torturing Cas; no way would he pass that on to someone else.

                “Calm yourself, Deanna,” Crowley said. “I didn’t know that I knew him. We’ve had the pleasure of meeting every now and again.”

                “Where at?” Sam snapped.

                “Auctions.”

                “Auctions?” Dean repeated.

                “Is there an echo, or has my hearing gone?”

                “What kind of auctions?” Sam asked.

                “Supernatural ones, of course. You boys think you’re the only ones to own some very nice, very rare artifacts? The Colt is a lovely little antique, but it’s got nothing of some of the things I’ve seen pass through. Last auction, I saw Thor’s hammer.”

                “So what about Magnus and these auctions?” Dean asked.

                “Magnus is a collector. He’s been looking for an angel for quite some time. Kept saying something about “it wouldn’t be finished” until he had one.”

                “What wouldn’t be finished?” Sam asked.

                “I don’t bloody know! I said I knew him, not that we had crumpets and tea.”

                “Then how are you helping us?” Dean said, standing up and stepping towards Crowley. God, he would love to stab Crowley just for the hell of it. He reached for the demon blade tucked into his belt loop. It wouldn’t have to be a killing blow, Dean would be satisfied just to see the fucker bleed a little bit—

                “Because I know where Magnus lives.”

                Dean swallowed. The tension fell out of his muscles and they turned to jelly. He stepped back. His ankle brushed against the edge of the bed.

                “His house is warded. You have to know it’s there to know it’s there, you know?”

                “You’re going to help us find it,” Dean said, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the knife. Crowley’s eyes followed his every movement.

                “Of course,” Crowley said. “We did have a deal after all. I get you back with your broken boy toy, you don’t kill me.”

                Dean’s eyes narrowed. He bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at Crowley for that ‘boy toy’ comment—but he didn’t want to piss Crowley off.

                “He’s here in Kansas City, not very exciting if I’m going to be terribly honest—“

                “We searched every square inch of Kansas City,” Sam snapped. “No one’s seen anything, there’s nothing there!”

                “Ah,” Crowley said, clicking his tongue. “You have to know what you’re looking for to find it. Well…”

                “Spit it out, asshat,” Dean spat.

                Crowley’s eyes darkened. “Patience, Squirrel. I’ve been doing some research. Magnus’s house is warded. Invisible, actually.”

                “It’s invisible?” Dean said in disbelief. “How the hell are we supposed to find an invisible house?”

                Crowley smirked. “Why, he’ll let you in!”

                Dean shared a suspicious look with Sam. “Yeah? Why would he?”

                “Magnus is a Man of Letters. Sorry, former Man of Letters. He got the boot some time ago, actually. Seems that how he survived the attack that killed all the others, but he still seems to hold the title with sickening reverence. Apparently the only other member he got along with was---wait for it—a mister Henry Winchester.”

                “Who?” Sam and Dean said.

                “Your grandfather.”

                Dean glanced back to Sam. “Our grandfather flew the coop. He ditched out on his family.” John would remind Dean of that all the time, especially when Dean was younger and would ask why John was always leaving;

                “My daddy didn’t come back,” John would say, “but I will. I’m a better man than he ever was.”

                “It wasn’t his fault he got murdered by a demon,” Crowley said. “Bit hard to come back to wife and little Johnny when your head’s not on your shoulders. That’s not the point. The point is, you two are legacies. Legacies of his only friend from the organization. He’ll let you in on that alone.”

                “What a minute,” Dean said, putting up a hand. “Our granddad was a hunter?”

                “A Man of Letters,” Crowley corrected. “Don’t ever let one of them hear you call them a hunter.”

                “You’re serious?” Sam scoffed.

                “As a heart attack,” Crowley said. His eyes flashed to that sinister red for a brief second before returning to the usual color. “And I can make that happen, you know.”

                “Okay,” Dean said, because they had no choice but to trust Crowley, and that was a knife twisted into his heart; it turned and turned when he considered that he could trust Crowley better than his own father. “Okay, so he’ll let us into his house if we ask him nicely. How do we find him to begin with?”

                “You call him.”

                “Listen, fuckhead, do you think I’m stupid?” Damn it, they couldn’t just keep doing this! Cas needed them. They were wasting time arguing, continuing in with this horrific cycle of banter.

                “You don’t want me to answer that, do you?” Crowley sighed. “How do you think your father met up with him?”

                “Dad called him?” Sam said.

                Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. Yes,” Crowley spat, “your daddy called him, how else do you think he managed to sell Castiel?”

                Dean’s heart was beating a tattoo against his ribcage. He swallowed.

                Crowley reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He reached over and held it between his two forefingers. Dean snatched it away, clutching it in his palm.

                “There,” Crowley said. “That suffices our deal, should it not?”

                “Sure,” Sam said. “Next time we see you—“

                “I’m dead. Looking forward to it, Moose,” Crowley winked and then he was gone.

                The bones in Dean’s hands were tight. He had to fight to open his fist and smooth out the piece of paper. Ten numbers were scrawled in red ink. Crowley’s handwriting was incredibly neat and precise, almost in perfect calligraphy.

                Ten numbers.

                Ten innocuous little numbers now stood as a barrier between him and Cas.

                Dean reached into his pant pocket and pulled out his phone. Sam stood beside him silently, pensive, but impatient.

                Dean’s hand shook as he punched in the numbers. Each ring seem endlessly long and quiet.

                Then, “Hello?”

                “Are you Magnus?” Dean said hoarsely. He had to shove the words from the back of his throat out past his tongue.

                “Yes.” The voice was eerily cheery, and it made Dean tremor in rage. Somewhere on the other side of the phone was Cas, in who knows what kind of condition. Was he hurting? Terrified?

                “My name is Dean Winchester,” Dean forced himself to say. He had to temper his rage. He couldn’t pull his mind away from Cas, so he had to focus on what was important: Cas’s safety. “You knew my grandfather.”

                “Winchester, Winchester,” Magnus mumbled. He clicked his tongue. “Henry Winchester? You’re Henry Winchester’s grandson?”

                “Yes,” Dean said. His grandfather had died when John was still a child, and John never spoke highly of him. Dean had to recover from the shock that apparently everything he knew about Henry Winchester was a lie.

                “I didn’t know Henry even had children,” Magnus said.

                Dean ignored that. “Well, word on the street is you and Henry were good friends. My dad won’t talk about him—“

                “Oh, you want to know about your grandfather? I can tell you anything you want!”

                “Could we do it person, maybe?” Dean said.

                “Of course, old sport. I think I might even have some photographs around here somewhere—“

                “Great,” Dean said. “When can we met?”

                Magnus listed off an address. Dean gestured at Sam wildly, pantomiming for something to write with. Sam pulled a pen out of his pocket and Dean put the phone between his ear and shoulder and scribbled the address down onto the slip of paper with the phone number. “Yeah, great,” Dean said.

                “Oh, I can’t wait to meet Henry’s grandson! He was such a good friend. I still miss him sometimes.”

                “Uh huh,” Dean said. “Thanks again, we’ll—my brother and I—we’ll be there bright and early tomorrow.”

                “Looking forward to it,” Dean said flatly. He ended the call then, hands still trembling as he put it back in his pocket. He looked back up to Sam.

                “I’m gonna kill him,” Dean said. The guy sounded so cheery, obnoxiously nice, way too quick to agree to Dean’s terms. He was too confident of himself, and Dean would use that against him.

                “Let’s focus on freeing Cas first,” Sam said.

                Dean was still thinking about Magnus, though, imaging what the guy really was like. A non-hunter who knew about the supernatural, who had the knowledge of all the magic and spell work, was not a good thing. He obviously was keeping Cas trapped somehow, and despite his judgement, Dean envisioned Cas shoved in some tiny, dark room, tied up and helpless. Magnus had Cas for two weeks now, and so much could have happened in that amount of time, so much damage done.

                Deans swallowed.

                It was only ten o clock pm. A long way until tomorrow. His mind was racing, his muscles stiff and trembling. He already knew he wouldn’t get any sleep tonight, and knew there was no point in trying.

                He stalked off the Impala.

                _Hold on just a little longer, Cas,_ Dean prayed as he chewed on his lip. _We’re almost there._


	25. Dean

CH 24

               

 

                Dean lay curled up in the bed, staring at the empty space beside him. He missed Cas. When they were separated in Purgatory, it hadn’t been this bad, Dean thought. Maybe it was just the atmosphere of Purgatory. Dean had to focus on his own survival there, and that forced his mind into a reprieve from his constant worrying of “Where’s Cas? Is he okay? Is he alive?”

Maybe it was because that was before they were more than a blank space.

                Maybe it was because this time, it was all Dean’s fault. Cas chose to stay away from Dean in Purgatory. This time, Cas had been wrenched away from him, and by someone Cas was supposed to trust. By someone Dean had trusted.

                Dean still couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid to think Cas and Dad were getting along; to think that Dad was even beginning to _like_ Cas.

                Dean exhaled slowly. He didn’t want to be so angry. Anger wouldn’t help Cas, and that was the most important thing right now.

                Tomorrow, Dean thought. Tomorrow, they’d speak with Magnus, and he would tell them where Cas was, even if Dean had to break out the worst part of himself.

\--

                Magnus didn’t have a house.

                It was a fucking _mansion._

                Dean stood outside and stared. There were several windows, several stories high. All Dean could think was, _there must be a lot of places you could hide an angel._

Sam walked up the large staircase, Dean trailing behind him. Sam knocked on the door; it had a large golden door knocker.

                The second knock Sam made, the door opened wide, creaking. Sam looked at Dean, face pale and stiff with worry. He leaned forward, just enough to see past the door.

                “Hello?” Sam said. His voice echoed.

                “Come in!” A voice said.

                Dean reached back, making sure he had his gun holstered to his hip. This was already getting weird.

                The brothers walked inside. The room was as giant inside as it was outside. They came into a spacious room, with wood flooring vaulted ceilings, and all sorts of artifacts against the wall. Paintings, armor, Persian rugs.

                There was a large oak desk, and a man standing in front of it. He was wearing an old suit, a red bow tie, and his hair was sleeked back with an obscene amount of gel. But, he didn’t look much older than either Sam or Dean. He was supposed to be eighty, Dean thought. He didn’t look anywhere near eighty.

“Are you Mr. Sinclair?” Sam asked cautiously.

                Dean’s eyes narrowed. This guy reminded Dean of that alternate him Zachariah invented, the one who wore suits and sat behind a desk pulling a nine-to-five: the ultimate of pretentious douchebags.

                He smiled sweetly. “Oh, please, Mr. Sinclair was my father. Call me Magnus. You must be the Winchesters.”

                Sam’s nose scrunched. Dean was confused as well.

                “ _You’re_ Magnus?” Dean said, pointing.

                Magnus smiled, with teeth too perfect and too white to belong to someone that should’ve been in their eighties.

                “Uh,” Dean said. “You don’t look—“

                Magnus laughed. “There are spells for everything. You must be Dean. I could do something for you, if you want. Fix up those crow’s feet—“

                “No thanks,” Dean spat.

                He didn’t understand. _This_ was the guy that Dad worked with, that had managed to keep Cas locked up for weeks?

It didn’t matter. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. _This_ was the guy that had Cas locked up somewhere within these walls, maybe even underneath Dean’s own feet. Dean’s vision turned red. He lunged at Magnus, knocking him over. He heard Sam call his name, but Dean ignored it, turning Magnus onto his stomach, twisting one arm behind his back, stretched in a painful angle. Dean used his other hand to pin Magnus’s head to the ground, nails digging into Magnus’s scalp.

                “Where is he?” Dean yelled, crushing Magnus’s arm. “What’ve you done with him?”

                Magnus trembled underneath him. “What in the sam hell are you talking about? Get off of me!”

                Sam’s hand gripped Dean’s shoulder and lifted him bodily up. Sam shoved Dean behind him, keeping strong grip on him. Every muscle in Dean’s body was pulled taut, his teeth aching. This was the man Dad had sold Cas to. This…this…

                Dean had no words.

                Magnus pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his suit.

                “Can’t believe the youth these days, assaulting elderly men,” Magnus muttered.

                “The angel,” Sam snapped. “Where is he?”

                Dean saw something light up in Magnus’s eyes; bright, innocent, near childlike, and it twisted something deep in Dean’s guts. He was so angry he was trembling, and if it wasn’t for Sam’s hand on him, he would’ve rushed the guy again and smashed his skull against the ground.

                “You boys are hunters,” Magnus said in a sing-song voice. “How interesting.” His face fell, and the childlike light turned into some dark, foreboding. “How despicable. What do you want with my angel?”

                “ _Your_ angel?” Dean snapped.

                “Yes, my angel. I rescued it. Its previous owner was horribly abusive. I had to dig a magic bullet out of its kneecap!”

                Dean swallowed thickly. “Look, just hand him over and no one has to get hurt.”

                Magnus rolled his shoulder and shot Dean a pointed look. “You want to kill it.”

                “No,” Sam said. “C—the angel, he’s our family. Not your pet. Give him to us, and we’ll go on our way, okay?”

                “No,” Magnus said. “I bought it fair and square—“

                “He doesn’t want to be with you,” Sam snapped. “He wants to be with us.”

                “Look, boys,” Magnus said. His voice lowered dangerously. Something flashed in his eyes. “This has been fun, but it’s feeding time, and if I don’t keep to schedule, those vampires will get grumpy.”

                “Vampires?” Sam and Dean said.

                Magnus pulled something about of his pocket and threw it to the ground, saying, ” _Vade in domum taum_.” Black smoke filled the small room, and Sam released his hold on Dean. Dean’s hands went straight to cover his nose and mouth, and he shut his eyes tightly; they burned, and he and Sam were coughing violently. Dean pulled his shirt collar over his nose and mouth and held it down with one hand. With his newly free hand, Dean batted away at the smoke, stepping forward.

                The smoke cleared away after a minute.

                “Shit!” Dean said, kicking the side table. Magnus was gone, and with him, he had taken Cas _again._

Dean’s legs turned to jelly and he slide down to the ground. He exhaled deeply, and the weariness went down to his bones.

                Sam cursed. His footsteps were heavy. Dean watched him bend down and pick something up.

                “He dropped this,” Sam said. It was a small, red book; it was tiny in Sam’s hands. Sam dusted off the cover. He opened it up and flipped through. The sound of paper on paper filled the heavy silence.

                “What is it?” Dean said. His tongue was fat in his mouth.

                Sam’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s…some kind of catalogue.”

                Dean raised his eyebrows.

                “Um,” Sam said, thumbing through the small notebook. “Like an encyclopedia. Here, listen to this.”

                Sam paused on a page. The handwriting was neat, written in cursive pen.

                “ _Genus suboles sanguinis_ ,” he saw Dean’s pinched expression. “Species blood sucker—so vampire, maybe. And then there are some sketches and notes.”

                The sketches were minimal, mostly an outline of the fangs and jaw structure.

                “Moderate intelligence, highly aggressive. Can survive off either human or animal blood. Heavy preference to human. Sleeps during the day.”

                The rest of the entries were of similar nature. Djinn were listed as being of “low intelligence” but “moderately aggressive”, werewolves were moderate on both levels.

                Dean’s stomach tossed when Sam reached it and read it aloud.

 _“Genus angelus_ ,” Sam said slowly. “Diet, none. Sleep patterns, erratic. Highly intelligent, highly aggressive.” Sam frowned deeper.

                “What?” Dean snapped. “What else does it say?”

                “Nothing good,” Sam said.

                Also scribbled onto the page were different sigil patterns. Dean didn’t recognize any of them.

                The lights in the room went out. It was pitch black.

                “Boys,” Magnus’s voice seemed to be coming from all directions. Dean couldn’t see for shit, and Magnus’s voice dug deep into his bones.

                “Where the hell are you?” Dean asked, spinning around and around. He stumbled into something sharp and solid and bit his tongue to silence the slew of curses resting on his tongue.

                “You boys have thirty seconds to get out of my house, or else I’ll be forced to release Stevie.”

                “Stevie?” Dean balked and laughed. He couldn’t see Sam, but he guessed about where he thought Sam might be standing. “Here that Sam? He’ll stick Stevie on us! I’m shaking in my boots.”

                There was a low, heavy growl.

                “Dean,” Sam said. The terror in Sam’s voice was laden. Dean swallowed. “I think Stevie’s a hellhound.”

                Claws scratched at the hardwood floors.

                “Run,” Dean whispered.

                He and Sam bolted. The hellhound howled, but Dean barely heard it over the blood rushing in his ears and his feet hitting the ground. Dean listened for both Sam and Stevie, thankful that it seemed Sam was in front of him.

                Dean hit his arm on something, but it didn’t register, his adrenaline coursing through his veins.

                He remembered what if felt like to have the hellhound’s teeth breaking through his skin straight down to the bone, as it ate at muscle and marrow. Claws digging at his face and insides.

                He tripped over something, turning his ankle the wrong way as he went down.

                Dean covered his head with his arms, turning his nose into the hard floor. His throat was tight with terror.

                _Please don’t hurt_ , he thought.

                Strong arms grabbed him by his shoulder, and Dean was hauled upwards.

                “I got you,” Sam said, panting.

                And then Dean felt the sun on his skin. He stumbled as Sam left him for just a moment—Dean couldn’t see, his eyes not yet adjusted to the sudden bright light, but he heard Sam slam the front door. Stevie snarled and scratched at the door.

                Dean’s stomach churned each time the nails slid down the wood.

                Sam was by his side again, wrapping a strong arm around Dean’s shoulder.

                “You okay?” Sam said.

                Dean gritted his teeth. There was silence from the other side of the door. His vision was beginning to return, splotchy, but he could make out the colors of Sam’s worried face. “Fucked up my ankle,” Dean hissed.

                “C’mon,” Sam said. “We’ll take it slow.” He took one slow, solid step forward, Dean being more or less dragged along.

                “Wait, no,” Dean said, jostling at the sharp pain that raced through his leg. “We have to find him, Sam.”

                “We will,” Sam said, taking another step.

                “No, we have to find him _now._ ”

                “We’ll go back to the motel, research those sigils. Find a way to get rid of Stevie. You can’t even stand on that ankle, Dean, how do you think you’re gonna manage a search and rescue?”

                One more step. Dean could feel the pain in his teeth.

                “I promised him,” Dean said. “I promised today would be the day.”

                Sam sighed. They made it to the Impala. Sam maneuvered them so that he could open the passenger side door, and he helped Dean slide inside.

                Tears pricked at Dean’s eyes.

                “He’s a tough guy,” Sam said. “He’ll be okay. He knows we’re trying, and that we’re not going to give up. But we can’t run into this blind, Dean. It’s dangerous for us, and for him. We don’t want to endanger him further, do we?”

                Dean swallowed. “No,” he whispered.

                He hated when Sam was right.

                Sam slammed the passenger door shut and raced around to the driver’s side. Sam put the car in gear and began to drive off. Dean rested his head against the glass of the window.

 


	26. Castiel

CH 25

                Magnus’s footsteps were heavy. He appeared in front of the cell. He had a tan bag hanging off his arm. Castiel stayed in his corner. Magnus’s grip was tight around the key. His face was red. He slammed the cell door open and stormed in, and he slammed it close behind him. The bars rattled.

                “Monstrous things,” Magnus muttered. “Angel, your reputation seems to precede you.”

                Castiel remained silent, but his eyebrows did rise in confusion.

                Magnus sat on the ground and began to pull out several items from the bag.

                “Hunters were here earlier,” Magnus said. “Looking for you.”

                Castiel fought to remain conscientious of his reactions. He was stoic, did not allow any emotion to show on his face; but his mind was reeling, his heart thumping wildly inside his chest. Sam and Dean had been here.

                “I barely got rid of them,” Magnus continued as he pulled items from the bag. Castiel arched his neck, but could barely see anything Magnus was taking out. “Had to call Stevie out on them.” Magnus stood. He had a long coil of rope in his hands. “But they’ll be back, I’m sure. Angel, we’ve got to move you.”

                He stepped forward. Castiel jerked back, trying to squeeze himself as far into his little corner as he could.

                Magnus’s eyes burned in anger. “Angel, we’re not playing these silly games. I’m trying to keep you safe. Those hunters are horrible people! They’ll abuse you, just like that man!”

                Sam and Dean had been here, sometime. They knew where he was. Castiel couldn’t let Magnus move him, not when the Winchesters were so close to saving him.

                “Put your hands out,” Magnus said, holding the coil of rope. Castiel could see where warding symbols had been burned in, ones similar to those on the ceiling.

                Castiel looked at those wards, and glanced to the ones of the ceiling.

                Suddenly, Castiel was overwhelmed with a sense of anger. He was an _angel._ A being of indefinable power; blood and the grace of God flowed through his veins. This man should be cowering at his feet—at his mercy—not the other way around.

                Castiel was a warrior of God—and this entire time he allowed Magnus to keep him subdued out of Castiel’s fear of pain. What kind of warrior was Castiel? He led the siege to the Pit of Hell—and he had been afraid of the pain cast by a spell?

                No. No more.

                Dean wouldn’t have let this man manipulate him in such a way. Dean would’ve fought, and fought, and fought at every opportunity.  

                Castiel stuck his hands out. Magnus smiled softly. He put the length of rope underneath Castiel’s wrists, and then Castiel smacked his head against Magnus’s as hard as he could. He heard a sickening _crack_ noise. Castiel got to his feet, ignoring the fiery ache in his leg. It wouldn’t matter, he told himself. Once he left the cell, his knee would heal, it was just a few moments of pain.

                Castiel ran. Magnus whispered the forbidden spell, and Castiel felt it spike through his wings and grace. It was like being electrocuted. His body wanted to crumble and surrender.

                But Castiel couldn’t surrender. As he fell to his hands and knees, Castiel fought against the pain. He crawled on his elbows and one good knee, his poor one dragging behind him like a dead fish.

                “Wait!” Magnus screamed. He said the forbidden spell again. Again Castiel felt it permeate to his grace and bones. He grounded his teeth together, nails scrapping against the cold concrete, and he kept moving.

                “Angel, no!” Magnus cried. Magnus grabbed onto Castiel’s ankle and tried to pull him back. Castiel kicked backwards, hitting something of Magnus’s—Castiel personally hoped it was his nose—and he kept crawling.

                He was so close. Castiel pulled himself along, inch by inch. So close, almost there, almost to freedom, to _Dean_.

                Castiel got to the door and he pulled.

                It was locked.

                Magnus grabbed onto Castiel’s ankle one more time and he squeezed. Castiel felt the rope wrap around his ankle and the binding spells were instant.

                “Don’t you see?” Magnus said, pushing his weight onto Castiel’s bad knee. “I’m doing this for your own good! I’m doing this to protect you!” Magnus was on his back now, pinning Castiel down onto the ground. Magnus grabbed at Castiel’s arms and pulled them behind his back. Castiel fought, squirming like a worm, bucking and kicking underneath Magnus, but the rope around his ankle weakened him and his struggles did nothing to stop Magnus.

                Magnus wrapped that piece of rope around Castiel’s wrists, pulling tightly on the bindings. They ate into Castiel’s skin; he could feel the circulation cutting off sluggishly.

                Magnus was panting, his breath warm against the back of Castiel’s neck. “I didn’t want to do this,” he said. “But you’ve not given me a choice. I have to protect you!”

                “I’m not yours to protect!” Castiel spat. The ropes hurt, and he felt so incredibly helpless. Moments ago, he felt stronger than he had in years, felt like the angel he was.

                He wasn’t an angel.

                An angel wouldn’t have gotten captured in the first place.

                An angel shouldn’t be so easily contained, with paintings and ropes.

                Magnus pushed himself off of Castiel and hooked his fingers into the rope around Castiel’s wrist. He dragged Castiel across the floor. Castiel squirmed and kicked even more, throwing all his weight into each movement, but Magnus was undeterred. Castiel was dragged back to his corner, having acquired several scrapes along his face and neck from the ground.

                “I’ll be back,” Magnus said. “I have to arrange the proper transportation. I doubt those hunters will come back after the scare Stevie gave them, but we can’t be too careful now, can we?” Magnus dusted off his suit and stormed out of the cell, leaving behind his bag on the ground. Castiel still couldn’t see what was inside it, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

                Castiel remained painfully silent as Magnus spoke and slammed the cell door. He hadn’t heard any prayers from San and Dean for some time now, but he believed in the brothers. They would come back and rescue him.

                Castiel just hoped it would be in time.


	27. John

CH 26

                His boys drove off in the car, Dean putting every ounce of horsepower to use, John still able to hear the roar of the engine long after it was out of sight.

                He stood in the middle of the road for a while, staring in the direction the car went off in, his face aching.

                He screamed. He kicked at the dirt, kicked rocks as far as he could, and he pulled at his hair and he screamed.

                “Why?” he screamed to the sky. Angry tears pooled in his eyes, blurring the image of the stars and moon. He thought they were laughing at him; they must be. Something was laughing at him, some sadistic being. “Why bring me back to this?”

                This was worse than Hell. Hell was superficial and psychological. This was visceral. This was heart-wrenching, bone deep, neuron infesting pain. His sons hated him. His sons had forsaken him for a monster.

                The monster was gone, far away, and his sons still chose it over their father.

                His jaw ached where Dean had punched him.

                John looked to the devil’s trap. He still shook in disbelief. His sons had summoned a demon right before him, against his orders, and they took its word over his.

                Demons, angels. Apocalypses. His boys had been through so much. Why couldn’t they see? John had given them a gift. A reprieve from all of the heavenly and hellish forces that were determined to plague their lives, beginning with the one closest to home. They could be a family again. The greatest hunters in the world. People would speak of them in dive bars and through the circuit—‘Did you hear about them Winchester men?’.

                Why couldn’t his boys see that?

                John wiped at a tear stuck to his cheek.

                He replayed the entire conversation with the demon. Some things it said stuck out and made John worry.

                It spoke like Dean and the angel were…

                But that wasn’t possible. Dean wasn’t that stupid. And the angel had possessed a man. Dean was a red-blooded American if John ever saw one, never so much as looked at a man like that.

                Except…

                Except, there had been so many women Dean should’ve been drooling over that he didn’t pass a second glance. And he stood so close to the angel. And Sam said something once to the angel, about Dean being jealous.

                And things the demon said.

                Demons lied. John knew that. There was no reason to believe anything that came out of its mouth.

                So why couldn’t John get it out of his head?

                He felt like he was going to be sick. What if…what if…

                If Dean had sex with the angel, was his soul his own anymore? Sam slept with that demon, and lost control of himself. The Dean John was seeing now was not the Dean he raised, not the Dean he laid his eyes on before the hellhound took him.

                Was John too late? Did the angel already stake its claim?

                John fumbled for his phone and shakily dialed Sam’s number. It rang twice and then went to the voicemail. John didn’t leave one, and began typing out slowly a text message. He hoped he could somehow get his commanding tone through.

                _Call me._

He didn’t want to know, but he had to know. This was his oldest son. Dean had suffered so much already—John didn’t want him to suffer. He wanted Dean to be okay. When John hit send, he exhaled, his chest shaking. He walked to the devil’s trap and picked up his two duffel bags. They were heavy, and his shoulder began to ache moments after he put them on, but he had to do it.

                He began walking.

\--

                Sam never answered any of his calls or texts. It was radio silence all around, just like when Sam left for Stanford. Except back then, John had been pissed at Sam’s betrayal; this time, John felt nothing but throat-tightening concern.

                John tried to hitchhike, but no car stopped for him, and John couldn’t help but understand. He was dirty, face bruised and probably blood stained. He wouldn’t stop for him either. So he kept walking until his feet and back ached, and he made it to a crummy motel with a failing neon sign.

                The teenage clerk at the front counter snapped her gum when John walked in, dirty and sore, and angry. She looked up over her magazine. She popped her gum in her mouth which hung open; her eyes were wide.

                “One room, please,” John said, reaching into his duffel that had all the money in it. He twisted his body so that the clerk couldn’t see how much he had. He grabbed a fistful and laid it on the counter.

                The clerk counted it out quickly, eyes always going back to John. She pushed the key and sign-in book across the counter.

                John sighed it Joseph Connor and smiled.

                The girl looked like she’d been slapped. “En-enjoy your s-stay,” she said.

                John’s smile fell and coughed awkwardly. He snatched the key and walked to his assigned room. It was on the far side of the motel.

                It was just like any other motel room. John threw his bags onto the ground and his muscles sang in relief. He stripped down and showered, the hot water melting away the pain. He scrubbed away the blood on his face and underneath his fingernails. Once that was clean, he changed the water to run cold, and it felt good on his face, easing the bruising and his busted nose.

                He rested his head against the tile.

                All he could think was that his boys hated him.

 

                He tried calling Sam one last time before he went to bed. Once again, it rang exactly two times and then John was met again with the familiar voicemail.

                John threw his phone straight across the room. It smashed into pieces against the wall, and chipped the paint. John sighed and curled up on the bed.

                He didn’t cry, but he got damn well close.

                --

 

 

 

                John knew he was dreaming when he opened his eyes. Instead of the dark, smelly motel room he had fallen asleep in, he was in a room that was blindingly white. White walls, white floor and ceiling; there wasn’t a window that he could see, but the room was illuminated like the sun was shining directly in it.

                It reminded him of an office.

                “Welcome, John Winchester,” a voice said.

                John spun around. The setting changed. The room expanded, and a white, large desk nearly took up one side. Behind stood a woman in a pantsuit, dark hair pulled up into a tight bun. She smiled warmly, but her body posture was still stiff. She reminded him of the angel in the way she held herself.

                “Who are you?” John said. He instinctively reached for his gun, but it wasn’t there.

                The woman’s smile widened. “Don’t be afraid, John. This is just a dream. You’re still in your bed, sleeping.” She moved from behind the desk, her fingers trailing across the tabletop. “My name is Naomi.”

                She seemed familiar for some reason, but John couldn’t place it. An itch of déjà vu that seeped into his neurons and down to his marrow. He was sure he had met her somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember any incident. Maybe in another dream, though it seemed it must have happened long ago.

                She stood in front of him ramrod straight and smiled.

                “We have met before,” she said. “We gave you a mission, remember?”

                John shook his head. His throat tightened.

                Naomi reached forward and pressed her hand against John’s shoulder. Her smile was warm, yet authoritative.

                “Castiel,” she said. “I sent you to Earth to kill him, don’t you remember John?”

                John shook his head again. He hated the angel that had wormed its way into his boys’ lives. He wanted it dead, but settled for sending it off far away. That didn’t diminish the fact that he despised it, and wished for its death. He didn’t remember ever being ordered to kill it. Shouldn’t he remember something that sinister?

                He didn’t like the way Naomi looked at him expectantly. The way she spoke, slightly reprimanding as though he were a child. The way she just assumed herself to be some sort of boss to him, dream or not.

                “Honey,” John said, and watched Naomi’s eyes fill with burning ice, “I don’t take orders from no one.”

                He turned away from her and began to think of ways he could wake himself up, when a fiery pain shot down his spine and to his toes. He cried out and gripped at his side, trembling. His insides felt like they were being pulled out of him. His mind flashed to Hell, Alastair leering over him, organs filling his hands. John collapsed on the ground. He was on fire. He was back in Hell—

                And then it was over.

                Naomi’s heels clicked on the pale tile.

                “You best remember your place, John Winchester,” she said. John twisted his head to look up at her. The smile was gone now, and John saw controlled anger on her features. “It is within my power to kill you.”

                “You’re one of them,” John spat, muscles still painfully tight. It was a fight to even pry his jaw open enough to talk. “An angel.”

                “Yes,” it said, kneeling down. It grabbed John by his shirt collar and hoisted him up in one swift movement, shoving his back against the desk. “I hate having to remind you, but we had a deal, don’t you know? Kill Castiel and you can be reunited with your boys to live out the remainder of your pathetic human life.”

                “It’s gone now,” John said through clenched teeth. He had to lean against the desk for support. It bit into the soft skin of his back. “Far away from Sam and Dean.”

                Naomi’s eyes widened, like it’d been slapped. “Not everything is about your children,” it spat. “Castiel’s crimes are against Heaven. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what sort of sinful things he gets up to in bed with Dean Winchester. Castiel must pay.”

                “Glad there’s something we can agree on,” John said gruffly. “But it’s gone.”

                “Then find him,” Naomi spat. “I can do more than kill you, John,” it said darkly. “I can see to it that you get a one-way ticket back to Hell, straight back onto the Rack.”

                John stiffened. Images flashed in his mind, snapshots of Hell; blood and sulfur, pain, heinous singing. Chains, and fire; whips and smoke.

                Naomi grinned wickedly and John remembered. The strange woman he’d seen here and there ever since he woke up all alone in that forest in Ohio—it was Naomi. “That’s what I thought. So, tell me, is our deal back in place?”

                John still couldn’t remember their first deal.

                “You have three days, John. If Castiel isn’t dead by midnight on the third day, you will be.”

               

                --

                John woke up tangled in the motel sheets, gasping for breath. The room was pitch dark, and with him immobile, he thought for a heinous second he was back in Hell, that the angel bitch had made true on her promise.

                With the blood rushing in his ears, it took several seconds for John’s adrenaline to come down and the tension in his muscles to uncoil.

                He sighed pitifully into his pillow, twisting his fingers into the itchy sheets.

                He cracked one eye open at looked at the clock.

                _12:02 AM_

It was counting down, now.

                Had it all been a dream? He wondered. It had felt so real. And the pain—he still had phantom tingles skirting down his arms and legs.

                He didn’t want to go back to Hell…

                John untangled himself from the sheets and began packing his duffel. He made quick work of it and was finished in less than five minutes.

                Finding the angel would be difficult. John wasn’t sure where Magnus might have taken it, but he had to try and search.

                His sons hated him, but they didn’t understand. They would never understand. Everything John ever did was to protect his boys, and even if they could never understand or appreciate what it was he did, he would not change anything given the chance. Maybe he would change how he did it—kill the angel instead of selling it, but John did not regret getting it out of the way, away from his sons.

                He grabbed his bags and collected his gun from underneath his pillow, and then left the motel room. He sighed and searched the parking lot.

                He eventually found a beat up Civic and broke into it, thankful that the alarm didn’t go off. He had it hotwired in under a minute and tossed his bags carelessly into the backseat. The people who owned this car would never know the importance that John took it, and he silently thanked them as he put the car into gear.

                It would be a long drive back to Kansas City, but John wouldn’t lose too much of his three days. He was already starting with an advantage, he thought, backing out of the parking lot. He knew what city to start in, and who Magnus was and what he looked like.

                John gunned the engine, storming down the Interstate.


	28. Dean

CH 27

 

“Look, just get me one of those compression pack things, some Perc, and I’ll be good,” Dean complained when Sam pulled into their motel parking lot.

                “You don’t need Percocet for a twisted ankle,” Sam said, putting the car in park.

                “I do if I’m gonna be right back on it finding Cas.”

                “You’re not going anywhere,” Sam said, exiting out the driver’s side door. Dean frowned and opened his door. He tried to get out, but the moment his twisted foot bore any of his weight, he bucked forward, nearly face-planting onto the asphalt if it hadn’t been for Sam grabbing him by his shoulder at the last second.

                “See?” Sam said, shaking his head. He pulled Dean upright and pulled Dean’s arm over his shoulder. Dean bit down on his lip to suppress a moan. His arm was stretched upwards and over due to the height difference between him and Sam. “You can barely even stand! You’re gonna lay in bed, rest that foot. I’m going to get Cas.”

                “Not by yourself you’re not,” Dean spat, forced to move when Sam took a step forward. Fire raced up his spine. “That guy has a hellhound,” Dean said through gritted teeth,  “and apparently vampires and werewolves and who knows what the hell else. You need backup.”

                “Dean, you’re not backup like this. Besides, we need to figure out what those symbols in the book are,” Sam said. “We have to know what kind of binding he’s using on Cas, if Cas is gonna be hurt or depowered.”

                “You’re not going by yourself,” Dean repeated. Sam rolled his eyes and nearly dragged Dean to the motel room. “I’ll be fine, I just need—“

                “What do you need, Dean?”

                Dean swallowed. He had to work with Sam so that Sam could open the motel door without letting go of Dean.

                “I need to be there,” he said eventually. “When we save him.”

                “I think Cas would rather you be safe than fling yourself into danger trying to save him,” Sam said, dropping Dean onto the motel bed closest to the door. He pulled off Dean’s shoe, and sock, hissing at the level of swelling in the short amount of time. Dean glanced down towards it briefly and winced; it hurt like a bitch, but seeing it was another thing. It was swollen to nearly twice its size. It had a massive bruise all the way around, arching up towards Dean shin; and Sam was at the end of his foot, looking down at him with pity.

                Dean, overcome with frustration and anger and his own helplessness, turned onto his stomach screamed into the itchy motel pillow. Sam didn’t understand; Dean needed to be there to save Cas. He was going to be there, no matter what Sam said or did. It was just a twisted ankle; Dean’s worked with worse injuries before, and he knew he’d be okay if Sam would just give him the freaking pain meds.

                What Cas wanted didn’t matter at this point; they had to do whatever it took to save him, and the fact of the matter was, Sam couldn’t go alone. Not into the house of a lunatic who kept hellhounds and vampires and angels as pets, who was well articulated in some of the darkest sects of witchcraft.

                “I’m going, Sam,” Dean snapped. The Big Brother card hadn’t worked for years, not since Sam left for college, but Dean was desperate and not above pulling it. “You can’t stop me.”

                Sam scoffed. “Dean, you can’t even walk on your own. Couldn’t even make it out the front door. Trust me, I don’t have to worry about stopping you.”

                “I’ll be fine. I just need—“

                “You don’t need narcotics. Look, I’ll give you a Tylenol, but you know you don’t need more than that.”

                Sam left the motel room.

                Dean banged his head against the headboard and looked up at the ceiling. This was not happening. He and Cas—they’d been pulled apart by Heaven and Hell and Purgatory—Dean was not going to let a sprained ankle be a barrier.

                Sam came back in, duffel bags falling from his shoulders. He dug through his and pulled out the red first aid kit, rattling their Costco sized bottle of Tylenol. It rattled loudly, nearing empty. Sam grimaced, but popped open the cap and dumped two white pills into his hand. He passed them on to Dean.  
                “I’ll get you a glass of water,” Sam said, walking to the bathroom. He came back with one of those paper Dixie cups and rested it on the nightstand.

                Dean stared at the pills in his hand, throwing them back and swallowing them down. The water was revolting; Dean fought against the urge to gag, the pills sliding slowly down his throat.

                “I’m gonna head back,” Sam said. “You rest up here, and Cas and I will be back before you know it.”

                “Sam—“

                “Dean, _no._ ”

                Sam’s face was pale, but there was an undercurrent of rage burning in his eyes. His eyebrows were raised and his lips pulled slightly back, giving him a look of animalistic fury.

                “Look, you’re a liability—“

                “Sam, please.”

                Dean didn’t know what it was. Something in his tone, or expression, but he poured every ounce of whatever it was he felt heavy in his heart and soul and mind and forced it out, somewhere Sam could see and feel. Sam was the one that fell for the sob stories, the compassionate one, full of empathy. Sam had to understand. Dean couldn’t sit on the sidelines while Sam got to play Knight in Shining Armor.

                Besides, this was his fault. He endangered Cas, put Cas into this position; he had to be the one to save him.

                “I have to be there,” Dean said.

                Sam sighed, his shoulders lowering. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes tight. Dean took that opportunity to study his baby brother. Sam had lines growing around the corners of his eyes. Dean wondered how many he put there.

                “You stay in the car,” Sam said eventually.

                Something loosened in Dean’s chest, something he didn’t even know was there until it was gone. He exhaled.

                “I’m serious, Dean,” Sam said. “You sit your ass in the car and you wait—“

                “Yeah, Sam, I got it,” Dean said, already drawing schemes in his brain on how he could get into the house on his own. Still, a smile broke his cheeks, and he was trembling in anticipation.

                “Okay,” Sam sighed again. “I’ll take the angel and demon blade—one of them should work against a hellhound, anyway—and I’ll find Cas.”

                Sam walked up to Dean and pulled Dean’s arm over his shoulder. It didn’t hurt as much to walk on it as it did earlier, so at least the Tylenol was doing something (even if Dean still would’ve preferred some Percocet). The carpet was rough and scratchy against his barefoot, which dragged against the floor as Sam walked slowly out the door to the car.

                The hot gravel was harder to walk on. Dean had to bent his knee and raise his shin so that he didn’t burn himself, and it took him and Sam longer than it should have to get from the motel door to the Impala, but they got there, Sam helping Dean into the car.

                Sam slammed the passenger side door.

                “Just so you know,” Sam said as he manipulated his way into the driver’s seat, “I totally hate this.”

                “I hadn’t noticed,” Dean said, wincing as Sam pushed the seat all the way back with no warning.

                Sam rolled his eyes and put the car into the drive. Dean looked out the window, at the pacing scenery that meant one foot closer to Cas.

                _Almost there, Cas_ , Dean prayed. _Just a little longer._

\--

                Sam parked on the opposite side of the house as they originally came. Dean bit his lip, but kept quiet as he tried to come up with a plan. He was going to have to walk farther now, but he would push through. He went hungry and exhausted for Sam, he could do this for Cas.

                Sam sat in the front seat and went through his weapons. Angel and demon blade kept in his belt loop, the Colt holstered to his hip, and a vial of holy water in his jacket pocket. Anything Magnus had locked away in that mansion of his wouldn’t stand a chance.

                “Okay,” Sam said. “I’ll try and be back within an hour.”

                Dean snorted. “Have you seen the place, Sam? It’s huge! It’s gonna take you a lot more than an hour to search and find Cas.”

                Sam rolled his eyes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Sam frowned. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he added with a pointed look.

                Dean held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

                Sam looked annoyed and disappointed as he left the car, locking it behind him. Dean craned his neck to watch Sam walked around the corner of the house. Dean swallowed and rested his head against the seat. He waited, estimating when Sam should be at the front steps, on top of the steps, inside the house.

                Then he looked out the window. The yard was sparse, and mostly dead. Dean unlocked the car and opened the door. He was hit in the face with the warm evening air. He put all his weight on his arms and pushed himself up, bracing against dashboard. His legs shook. His bad ankle was like a dead fish. Dean made it out of the car, and shifted his weight against the side of the Impala. He gritted his teeth, and had to half crawl, half climb across the Impala to get to the trunk. Then Dean faced another challenge, of having to free one arm to open the trunk. Dean shifted and put the hip above his good ankle against the bumper and slowly, he transferred weight from one arm. It was a slow and painful process. When Dean opened the trunk, he almost hit himself in the jaw.

                But he got it done.

                Dean let out a shaky breath in relief.

                Dean rooted through the trunk, pushed past their bags of rock salt and ammo, searching, searching—and then he found it.

                It was an umbrella. Tall, black and ugly—but it was made of steel and the rod was solid. Dean put the tip onto the ground, holding onto the curved handle. It came up just past his hip. It was too short to be a proper cane, but it was something. Dean shut the trunk down and tried it out.

                He had to walk slowly. The ground was itchy underneath his barefoot, but thankfully the ground wasn’t painfully hot.

                He took one step. And then another. And then another. It was slow, and painful; ten feet away from the car, Dean was soaked in sweat. His chest ached. He was gasping for breath, but each breath he took was like a stab to his lungs.

                The house seemed so far away suddenly.

                But Dean had to be there. He had to find Cas, had to be backup for Sam.

                _One more step,_ he thought to himself, clenching the umbrella handle. _One more step._

                He kept up the mantra the whole way, moving slowly. _One more step._

                Little by little, the house didn’t seem so far away anymore.


	29. John

CH 28

                John’s stolen car creaked and moaned the entire drive back. His mind was plagued by that angel—Naomi. There was something underlying about the angel, sinister and snake-like. It smiled a lot, but John had seen through it. It made his skin clammy.

                He couldn’t remember the angel from before. He tried, searching and digging through every part of his mind, but there was nothing. Nothing but flashes of Hell, and blackness, and waking up in the dirt.

                How could he forget someone as sinister and malevolent as Naomi? Forget making a deal?

                And it was an angel.

                Maybe it was good that Mary never lived long enough to see and meet angels. Her heart would’ve been shattered to learn that they were nothing more than monsters.

                He crossed the city line into Kansas City just as the sun began to rise. He continued driving, the creaking and moaning of the car louder in the city streets without the speed of the Interstate to distract him.

                He pulled into an alley way and stared at the warehouse. He put the car in park and got out, and stared at the warehouse again.

                It seemed so small, suddenly. John walked, his boots scrapping against the asphalt. His eyes trailed, remembering every footstep. He could see small droplets of blood sunk into the ground. It was like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading to the door.

                He opened it. The door whined. John didn’t remember it being this heavy.

                His footsteps echoed inside. The smell of ash still lingered in the air. John could see the outline of the circle. It stained the ground. John bent down and touched it. The ground was completely dry, but the circle was darker than the concrete.

                John was unnerved. He felt like something was staring back at him.

                He stood ramrod straight and clenched his fist.

                It was something about this place, John thought. The angel’s presence still permeated here, still affected the air.

                Or maybe it was Naomi still in the back of his mind.

                John dusted off his jeans. His back ached from driving, he was so tired, and truth be told, he was terrified. For his sons and for himself. Angels were no different than demons; he had another demon  on his back, but this time, John was the prey.

                His boys needed him. He didn’t want to go back to Hell. He had no choice, but to do whatever it took to appease this Naomi. He had less than three days to track down Magnus and the angel, and kill it; save himself and his sons.

                He knew he better get started.

                John left the warehouse. He didn’t look back.

\--

                He counted off enough change for the pay phone. He had to search and search the city to find it, and finally did at a bus stop. It was dirty and worn, its disuse obvious.

                John dropped the coins in and punched in the phone number. It rang. He coiled the phone cord around his finger.

                It rang.

                And rang.

                There was a click.

                _We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and—“_

                John slammed the phone down onto the receiver. Of course he should’ve known the sniveling coward would change his number.

                John’s knuckles were white.

                What did he do now? He had nothing. _Nothing._ And he wasted nearly a day for nothing.

                John pressed a finger to his forehead. What was he supposed to do now? He didn’t have a picture of the man, and Magnus was obviously a fake name. He couldn’t ask around, see if anyone knew him.

                John shuddered. He wasn’t out of options just yet. He still had time. Just a little over forty-eight hours.

                He’d use every second of it.

                He stalked back to the car. Even if he had to go through every square inch with a fine tooth comb, he’d find Magnus and the angel.

                Phantom pains of hellfire nipped at his skin.


	30. Sam

CH 29

                Sam walked around another corner, gun cocked and straight. It was empty and he swallowed reflexively.

                This mansion was so much bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. Dozens of doorways leading to hallways which led to more doorways. Sam had no clue where to begin to search, and he dared not call out for Cas, at risk of endangering both of them.

                Sam glanced briefly at his watch. He’d only been gone from Dean for twenty minutes, but it felt so much longer. He hoped Dean would be okay for as long as it took. Sam knew his brother better than anyone else on Earth; Dean was stubborn, and absolutely hated to be benched. Sam would have preferred Dean’s help, but with that ankle, Dean was only going to slow Sam down. This was a rescue mission. Sam couldn’t have any liabilities.

                He hadn’t seen nor heard any more of Stevie thankfully, but Sam knew better than to relax and get careful. He listened intently for any sound. He stepped carefully, placing his feet flat against the floor. He was even careful to monitor his breathing, never too loud, nothing that could attract attention.

                He also kept an eye out for Magnus; it was likely he was still somewhere in the mansion. He had powerful magic, and Sam knew better than underestimate his opponent.

                The hallway came to an end, and Sam was faced with another door. He reached out and turned the knob. The door was locked. That hadn’t happened before, not in any of the other dozens of doors Sam had gone through. There had to be something about this door, then. Sam backed up and raised his foot. He kicked at the door, just below the knob. He did this again, and the knob rattled. Sam heard a faint cracking noise. He kicked one more time, focusing all his strength and weight into his leg. The door knob cracked down the middle, and the door swung open slowly.

                Instead of another hallway, Sam was met with a descending staircase. Sam took the first step slowly. There was no sound here, not even an echo of Sam’s footsteps. It was pitch black as well, and smelled dusty.

                The staircase was long and narrow. Sam was unable to see the bottom. He used his free hand to brace himself against the wall and lead himself down the steps. He felt he was underwater, and wondered how far underground these stairs must go.

                Sam didn’t know how long it’d been, or many steps he traveled, but when he hit the bottom, when he hit flat ground, he had to struggle to re-orient himself.

                There was a low light coming from around another corner. Sam wrapped both hands around the handle of the Colt.

                His heart dropped into his stomach. There were dozens of cells built into the walls, with different monsters trapped in each one. They were pressed against the bars, arms and faces leering out. A group of vampires hissed and bared their fangs, muttering about “fresh meat”, and the werewolf began to pace and howl.

                Sam ignored them as best he could. They were trapped. They couldn’t hurt him.

                Sam swallowed. “Cas?” he said weakly. “Are you in here?” Sam quickened his pace, racing to the end of the hallway, past a wendigo and djinn, to the very end. There was one empty cell. Sam peeked inside and saw a pathetic excuse for a cot, just blankets and pillows thrown in the corner. There was nothing else in the room.

                Sam’s eyes were pulled to the ceiling. Bile burned at the back of his throat. He couldn’t understand Enochian, not really, but he recognized those symbols—they were the ones Cas explained to him about in the motel room weeks ago.

                “Cas?” Sam said, louder.

                “Keep it down!” one of the vampires screamed. “He’s not here!”

                Sam raced back to the vampire cell. “The angel? You’ve seen him?”

                “Master took him away about an hour ago,” the vampire said disinterestedly.

                “Fuck,” Sam said. He slapped himself in the face. No, no, this could not be happening. He _missed_ Cas? By an hour? “Do you know where Magnus took him?”

                The vampire licked its lips. Its pupils were blown. “It’s been a while since I’ve had fresh blood, mate. Might be willing to trade.”

                Sam couldn’t keep the disgust off his face. He flicked the safety off the Colt and aimed the barrel right against the vampire’s forehead.

                “Or,” Sam said, “You tell me anyway and I don’t kill you.”

                The vampire’s eyes were locked onto the gun. Its lips were drawn into a tight frown. “You drive a hard, bargain, mate,” it said eventually.

                “The angel,” Sam said. “Where did Magnus take him?”

                The vampire swallowed. “I don’t know.”

                “You don’t know?”

                “That’s what I said, ain’t it? I look like something that would be askin’ after a bloody angel of all things? Thing’s hardly said a word since Magnus brought him in here. Maybe Magnus got bored of it finally.”

                Sam looked into the cell. There were two other vampires hiding in the corner of the cell—a female and a kid, hiding her face in the crook of her mother’s neck.

                “That your kid?” Sam asked.

                The vampire lunged, aiming for Sam’s jugular. Sam barely backed away in time, the vampire’s claws missing the skin of his neck by an inch. The vampire bore its fangs and growled.

                “Don’t you fucking _look_ at her!” it screamed.

                Sam put his hands up, palms forward. “You want out of here, don’t you? I can get you out.”

                The vampire snorted. “Pardon me if I don’t believe you. Your kind don’t exactly get along with my kind. Know how many humans I’ve killed? _Hundreds._ ”

                “You’re saying you want to be locked up in here, forever? What about her? You want her to grow up in a cage?”

                “I told you—“

                “No one deserves to be kept like this,” Sam said. “Help me, I’ll help you.” Sam would have to deal with Dean’s wrath later; Dean would probably be horrified if he knew what Sam was doing—but it was for Cas. Dean would understand. Hell, Dean would’ve done the same thing. “Now tell me,” Sam said lowly, “where did Magnus take the angel?”

                The vampire scowled. Its fangs stuck out past its lips, his hand wrapped tight around one metal bar.

                “Angel’s still in the house, far as I can tell. Master was talking about transportation arrangements, but it was gonna take some time. Angel wasn’t going down without a fight, neither, even with all that magic keeping him down.”

                Sam sighed. Okay, that was good. Cas was still in the house somewhere.

                That just left one question—where? The house was massive.

                The vampire must have been able to read Sam’s mind from his facial expressions. It grinned maliciously, snickering. “Better start looking, mate,” it said. “Don’t think your angel pal’s got much time left.”

                Sam scowled at the vampire. “You better hope not, for your sake,” Sam said.

                The vampire’s scowl fell.

                “If he’s hurt—or worse—our deal’s off.”

                “Hey, that’s not how deals work.”

                Sam scoffed and shrugged. “I drive a hard bargain, remember?”

                The vampire’s eyes lit with fury. Behind him, the child began to cry. Sam stormed the hall and back up the stairs. He couldn’t worry about being quiet anymore. He had to find Cas _now._

                “Castiel?” Sam called as loud as he could. He kicked open every door he passed, peering into it.

                Sam conjured an image of the house from the outside, trying to place where he might be in relation. If what the vampire said was true—and Sam had no choice but to assume it was—and Magnus was planning on moving Cas, he’d keep close to him. Probably close to an exit of some kind, but away from windows.

                Of course Cas wouldn’t go down without a fight, but Magnus was obviously keeping him restrained with those dark, dangerous sigils. Keeping him vulnerable, weak…

                Sam walked faster.


	31. Dean

CH 30

                 Dean made it to the entrance, out of breath. His chest was on fire, and his lungs felt like they were being squeezed by a giant. His ankle was throbbing, his arms shaking. The stupid umbrella was beginning to bend underneath his weight. He was soaked in sweat, and felt like he needed to puke. Dean swallowed the nausea. His movements changed from a pathetic limp to a deplorable penguin shuffle.

                But he had to keep going. Cas was somewhere behind that door, and Dean had _promised._ Dean pushed open the door, nearly tripping over the threshold. He could see the crumpled corner of carpet where he had fallen earlier that gave him this bum ankle to begin with. Once they found Cas and made sure he was okay, and Magnus had eaten lead, Dean was going to have him destroy the monstrosity.

                Cas said he could always find Sam and Dean despite the angel wards burned into their ribs by their “longing”. Not for the first time, Dean wished he could do the same. It would be so wonderful to turn on some magic Castiel GPS in his brain and track the angel down. It would be beneficial to Dean’s blood pressure and sanity.

                “C’mon, Cas,” Dean said. “Give me a sign. Anything will do.”

                Dean heard approaching footsteps coming from his right. “Cas?” Dean turned his head, but he couldn’t see who was coming. Bile rose in Dean’s throat. What if it was Stevie again?

                Dean was frozen to the ground in fear.

                “Cas, that better be you,” Dean said.

                “ _Dean?”_

                Dean sighed in relief. He’d rarely been so happy to hear his brother’s patronizing voice.

                Sam appeared around the corner. His jaw tightened, eyes scanning Dean from head to toe. Sam saw the pathetic excuse for a crutch and exhaled out his mouth. Sam pulled his lip between and walked forward, his footsteps heavy.

                “One thing,” Sam said. “Stay in the car, that’s all I asked! But no, apparently, that’s too much for you to handle. Goddamn it, Dean,” Sam grabbed Dean by his elbow and pulled Dean towards him, forcing Dean to shift his weight. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

                Dean groaned. “Did you find anything on Cas?”

                The anger fell from Sam’s face. Impatience, and worry replaced it. “Found the basement. Magnus has got an entire zoo down there.”

                “A zoo?”

                “What else would you call a bunch of creatures held in cages? Cas was there—I found a cell at the very back covered in angel wards.”

                “But no Cas,” Dean said.

                “Vampire I talked to said Magnus moved Cas about an hour ago; Magnus is planning on moving him apparently. But he’s still in the house somewhere.”

                Dean furrowed his eyebrows. “What aren’t you telling me?”

                “Um,” Sam said. “To get that information, I kind of promised I’d free them all if we found Cas.”

                Dean closed his eyes tightly.

                “You would’ve made the same call,” Sam said.

                Dean swallowed. “Yeah, I would’ve. Man, if Dad was pissed before, what if he could see us now? Hanging out with angels, making deals with demons and vampires—“

                “Don’t worry about Dad,” Sam said. “Do I have to take you back to the car, or will you stay put?”

                “Give it up, Sam,” Dean said. “I’m going with you.”

                “You’re slowing me down.”

                Dean pretended that wasn’t a punch in his gut, and struggled to shift his hips so he could drag his leg forward.

                “You’re gonna fuck up your tendons,” Sam said.

                “Cas will fix it,” Dean said. “It ain’t nothing I can’t handle.”

                Sam sighed, but thankfully kept quiet. They found some sort of rhythm, an awkward, slow shuffle, but they were moving.

                “I was thinking,” Sam said, panting, “God, you’re heavy. I was thinking, Cas has gotta be somewhere close by. Close to an exit, if Magnus wants to move him somewhere.”

                “Or,” Dean said, “he could be in the fucking attic.” Dean hoped not. The front entrance stairs had been torturous, he couldn’t handle anything else.

                They walked down a long hallway, with several more doors, and Dean wondered how the hell they were supposed to find Cas in here. It was worse than a needle in the haystack.

                Until Dean felt it. It was like a tickle in his brain, something he couldn’t explain, but he _felt_ it.

                “Sam,” Dean said. “There.” Dean pointed to the door next to them. It was just an ordinary, wooden door; there was nothing spectacular about it, but the itch wouldn’t go away. In fact, it got worse, bordered on burning. “He’s in there,” Dean said.

                Sam looked at him, worried and tired.

                “You have to believe me,” Dean said. “He’s in there, I know it. I don’t know how I know it, but I know it!”

                “Okay, Dean,” Sam said. He tilted his head. Dean reached over at turned the handle, shoving the door open.

                Castiel was there, tucked away in the corner. His hair was wild, eyes sunken in, dirty and worn—but he was alive. He was okay.

                “Cas!” Dean and Sam said. Sam rushed forward, and Dean couldn’t keep up. He fell face forward onto the hardwood floor.

                “You’re here,” Cas said, breathy and surprised. Dean raised his head and saw Sam help Cas into a sitting position. Sam grabbed at the angel blade on his hip and carefully sliced through the ropes binding Cas’s wrists and ankles, meticulous to avoid accidentally cutting Cas.

                The ropes fell free and to the ground in pieces.

                Dean sighed and trembled in relief. It was like ice flooded his veins on a hot summer day. All the anxiety washed out of his system in one solid second, with one solid exhale.

                Sam threw his arms around Cas’s neck and pulled him into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry, Cas, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault—“

                “Sam, it’s not—“

                “It is, I knew something was up with Dad and I pretended it wasn’t and you got hurt because of it—“        

                “I’m okay, Sam,” Cas said.

                Sam released Cas and rubbed at his reddening eyes. He sniffed.

                Cas looked towards Dean.

                “Dean,” Cas said. He moved towards Dean. “You’re hurt,” he said, once he reached Dean. Cas brushed his fingers across Dean’s forehead; Dean felt that familiar icy relief rush through him, and the pain in his ankle was gone. Dean glanced down at it; the swelling was gone and the bruising, like it’d never been there.

                Cas looked down at Dean. Dean felt was captivated. Cas had been kidnapped by their dad and sold to some kind of madman—Dean could only imagine what kind of torture Cas must have endured during these weeks he was gone—and his first concern had been to comfort _them._ To assuage Sam’s ill-placed conscience and take away Dean’s pain.

                Dean also realized his bone deep exhaustion was gone. He felt well-rested, and didn’t even have the caffeine jitters to get him through the day.

                Dean couldn’t wait any longer. He lunged towards Cas, wrapping his arms all the way around, pulling his angel towards his chest. Cas made a noise of surprise, but relaxed underneath Dean’s touch. He even returned the hug, wrapping his arms around tightly around Dean’s middle. Dean swallowed the slight gasp of pain—Cas was mojoed up again and Dean had the proof of his angel strength pressing against him, but he couldn’t bear to ask Cas to let up. Cas was here.

                It was too surreal. After everything he’d done and seen and learned these last couple of weeks, it felt like this was a dream. Another reason he couldn’t ask Cas to loosen up; the slight crushing of his ribcage was proof this was real.

                “I knew you’d come,” Cas said.

                Dean began to cry.

                “I thought I’d never see you again,” Dean admitted weakly.

                “I knew you’d come.”

                “Uh, guys,” Sam’s voice broke through. “I hate to break this up, but we need to get going before Magnus comes back.” Dean and Cas reluctantly released. “Cas, how’re you feeling?”

                Cas looked at his hands and made a fist. “I am free from the bindings.”

                “I, uh, kind of made a deal with the vampire down in the basement. Told him I’d free everyone down there if he helped us find you.”

                “Sam,” Cas said. He closed his eyes.

                “I know,” Sam said. “But, you weren’t down there, and I panicked. And um, we can’t actually free them, you know that. They’d probably kill us right out the gate.”

                Cas sighed. “Okay, but we must make it quick. Magnus might be back any moment.”

                Cas and Dean stood. “Where is he anyway?” Dean asked.

                Cas looked around. “He said something about obtaining a truck. I’m not sure how long he left.”

                “I’m gonna kill him,” Dean said.

                Cas put his hand over Dean’s. “He didn’t hurt me,” Cas said.

                “Cas, he _bought_ you like—like a fucking piece of furniture. And he keeps vampires and hellhounds like pets.”

                “I know,” Cas snapped. “But I don’t want him dead.”

                Dean groaned and grabbed at his hair. Cas had gone on some kind of pacifistic route ever since the Leviathan shitstorm and it got really annoying sometimes. It only ever became a problem when they were dealing with something human—like witches, or other hunters. Cas would fight if he had to, but he had to be pushed to that point.

                “Please, Dean,” Cas said. His eyes were wide and open—damn Sam for teaching Cas the fucking puppy dog eyes!

                “Fine,” Dean snapped. “Let’s just go and kill some monsters!”

                Dean grabbed Cas by his wrist and pulled him out in the hallway. Dean was never letting go of the bastard again, never letting Cas out of his sight, if Cas had to stand in the corner of the bathroom while Dean pissed, so be it, as long as he was somewhere Dean could keep an eye on.

                Sam led the way down to the basement where Magnus had his supposed ‘zoo’—and Dean realized that Sam’s word choice had been accurate. It was just one long hallway, but there were cells in both sides, long, skinny arms hanging out past metal bars. Snarls filled the air.

                “Go upstairs,” Cas said.

                “Is that you angel?” one of the monsters said. Dean looked to Sam—he could tell from Sam’s expression that it must have been the vampire.

                “No way, Cas,” Dean said. “Never letting you out of my sight again.”

                “If you don’t leave, you won’t have your sight.”

                Dean chewed on his lip.

                “Where’s your human, angel? He’s supposed to free us!”

                “Dean, Sam, now.”

                Dean tightened his grip on Cas’s wrist. “How bad is this gonna fry you?”

                Cas swallowed. “I’m not sure.”

                “You can’t keep doing this,” Dean whispered. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

                “Dean, trust me.”

                Dean stared at Cas. Strong, resilient Cas; some days Dean forgot that Cas was lightning in a bottle, that what Dean saw and knew as ‘Castiel’ was nothing more than a costume. Dean would never get to see the real Castiel, whatever that may be. Cas had come a long way from the night he and Dean met in a decaying barn, on a stormy night in Illinois.

                But—despite anything Cas thought—he was still an angel.

                Dean let go of Cas’s wrist.

                “It’ll only take a minute,” Cas said.

                “Hey!” the vampire screamed, rattling the bars. The other creatures began to howl, screech, scream. The tiny hallway was encased in a cacophony of noise. “We’re waiting!”

                “Go,” Cas said.

                Sam put a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder and led him up the stairs. Dean looked back halfway up the stairs. Cas was staring forward.

                Sam closed the door behind them.

                A bright, blue glow pushed through the cracks of the doors. Dean and Sam both shut their eyes tight and slide to their knees on the ground. Tornado like winds howled. The door rattled. Animalistic screams joined in the chaos. The screws on the hinges popped out, clattering on the ground. Dean and Sam pushed against the door with all their weight to keep it closed. The wind was cold and strong and loud. Dean had never seen a tornado in real life before, but he imagined it must be similar to this. It whipped at his skin and hair—

                And then it was gone. The light vanished, the wind stopped. The door stopped rattling. Dean waited a beat then opened his eyes. Except for the door, he couldn’t see any damage. Beside him, Sam was panting. His hair was wind-whipped, tangled in his eyes.

                “You okay?” Dean asked.

                Sam nodded. “Yeah. Feel like I just went through a blender, though.”

                Dean nodded in agreement. He pushed himself to his feet on shaky knees.

                “Cas?” he said, pulling the door open. It fell forward, crashing to the ground. It cracked straight down the middle. Dean winced.

                He glanced down the stairs. “Cas, you okay?”

                “I’m fine.” Cas’s voice was gruff and quiet. Dean raced down the stairs. Cas was at the very bottom, panting. His face and hair were covered in sweat.

                “Damn it,” Dean said.

                “It’s fine,” Cas said. “They’re all dead.”

                “Great,” Dean said. “Now, let’s get out of here before Magnus comes back.”

                “Oh, I think it’s too late for that.”

                Dean and Cas whipped their heads around. Sam walked slowly down the stairs, hands up. Magnus stood behind him, gun pointing right at Sam’s head. Magnus’s eyes were dark and wild.

                “Let’s have a chat, hmm?” Magnus said.

 


	32. John

CH 31

                After John spent hours upon hours of searching and scouring, questioning everyone he came across, he had less than twelve hours left, and nothing to go on.

                Desperation clawed at his chest. He told himself it was okay; it would be okay. Dean and Sam made a demon deal without selling their souls. He could do the same thing.

                He didn’t want to go to Hell.

                He had to drive out of the city limits to find a crossroads, but before he stopped by one of those large department stores. He bought a can of spray paint, a large bag of rock salt, a tiny tin box. He had to drive to a voodoo store to get the cat bones, and an old Polaroid camera for the picture of himself.

                John wasted valuable time in finding the items, wasted time driving to the crossroads, but he was out of options and nearly out of time.

                He made the devil’s trap as small as possible; he did not want to give the demon a large berth. For added measure, he made an outer circle of rock salt around the trap. He dug the hole with his hands and buried the box messily. Dirt caked underneath his fingernails.

                John shivered. His throat was dry. A figure stood out of the corner of his eyes, tall and glaring, clad in dark blue.

                John growled and dug his nails into his palm. He snapped his neck towards the figure, but it was gone.

                “Leave me alone!” John grabbed at his hair, trying to snuff away the tears that burned in his eyes. Naomi was haunting him.

                John pushed himself to his feet. His bones cracked and ached with the motion. John stomped on the mound of the dirt.

                The atmosphere changed immediately. John backed out of the circle, careful not to mess up the salt circle. He grabbed for the gun loaded with rock salt pellets on his hip, finger resting on the safety.

                “You again,” Crowley said. “I hate Winchesters. You’re harder to get rid of than roaches.”

                “Where is Magnus?” John snapped.

                Crowley snickered and sneered. “Why should I tell you?”

                In one solid motion, John pulled the gun from his hip, flicked off the safety, and shot Crowley square in the chest with rock salt.

                Crowley yelped in pain, clutching at its wound; smoke pooled from the hole in his chest.

                His eyes flickered red, a forked tongue peeking out past his lips for the briefest of moments. “Is that how we get what we want?”

                John kept the gun pointed at Crowley. “I could go for an eye next time,” John said.

                Crowley fake-chuckled. “But what would that get you?”

                “Look, demon,” John said. “Way I see it, you’re trapped, at my mercy. Unless you want me to blow the next round up your ass and out your mouth, you’ll tell me where Magnus is.”

                “No,” Crowley said. “No way. I’m done making deals with Winchesters! Whatever leftover shambles of soul still festers deep in your pathetic little meat suit isn’t worth the aggravation!”

                John shot Crowley in the knee. The demon bit through its lip. Smoke pooled slowly at the newer wound.

                “Why don’t you ask your children where Magnus is?” Crowley said. “Oh, wait, you can’t—they hate you, don’t they?”

                “You’re stuck here ‘less I let you out,” John said. “You don’t help me, you can rot here forever.”

                Crowley snorted. “Whatever keeps me far away from the likes of your lot is fine by me!”

                “Please,” John said, hating himself for the way his voice broke. He didn’t want to appear weak, especially not in front of the demon, but he was running out of time. The invisible clock that bore down on his shoulders ticking, ticking, ticking towards zero—he couldn’t let it get to zero. He’d go back to Hell, and there’d be no one to protect his boys. “I need to know where he is.”

                Crowley stared at John; his eyes still were the bright, blood red.

                “Make a deal never to make any more deals with me, and you have yourself a deal. Not just you, but your nimwit sons and everyone’s favorite little dodo bird. Deal?”

                “Deal,” John said quickly.

                “Shake on it,” Crowley said. It stuck out its hand. Its eyes flickered back to normal, human looking eyes.

                John swallowed and before he could second guess himself, reached in and grabbed the demon’s hand. One solid, firm shake.

                “Break the seal,” Crowley hissed. John drug his foot through the dirt. Crowley smiled, revealing all his teeth. He used his free hand and tapped John on the forehead.

                John felt something grab him around his ankles. He was pulled down and dragged roughly—it felt like he was going through a blender. Everything was black and spinning; a loud whirring noise filled the air and static bit at John’s skip like pinpricks.

                Then it stopped. John landed hard on his back. He groaned and turned over, clutching at the soft earth beneath him. He fought to catch his breath, like his lungs had holes in them. He swallowed. After a few moments had passed, he managed to relax and breath normally. He studied his surroundings. The evening sky was burning bright red, a cool breeze nipping at his skin.  The grass beneath him was dead, itchy and crunchy.

                John pushed himself into a sitting position.

                Before him was a massive mansion. It towered over John, casting him into a spot of shade. John got to his feet and looked to the ground. There were odd imprints in the earth, one clear boot print, one continuous line, like something had been dragged, and odd markings, tiny, deep holes. His eyes followed their origins.

                A few feet away, the Impala was parked against a lone tree. John walked over to it, worry curdling in his guy. His boys were here. The strange footsteps came from the passenger side door. John peered into the window; no one was inside, and as always, the seats and foot wells were meticulously clean. The strange footsteps lead away from the Impala and disappeared around the corner of the house.

                John resisted the urge to punch through the window. What had his boys gotten themselves into now? John followed the footsteps, jogging. The footsteps disappeared at the base of a grand stair case. John swallowed as he examined the stair case. They were wide and many, gradually getting narrower  as they got to the top.

                John raced to the top of the stairs, and came face to the face with a grand wooden door. It was slightly open.

                John wasted no time. He stormed inside.


	33. Dean

 CH 32

                Dean clenched his teeth. Magnus wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulder, the gun still held perfectly still against his head. Dean couldn’t say anything, couldn’t unleash any of the obscenities he wanted to, for fear of his brother’s safety. He gripped onto Cas tightly instead; if Cas had been human, Dean would’ve drawn blood.

                Cas was tense, every muscle pulled taut. His face was emotionless, but Dean knew Cas well enough. He knew Cas was thinking.

                “Okay,” Magnus said. “We’re just gonna keep moving, all right? Nobody has to get hurt.”

                Sam stepped slowly down the stairs. Dean kept his eyes locked onto his baby brother, his grip around Cas getting tighter.

                Cas covered Dean’s hand with his own. Dean swallowed. He and Cas backed up slowly as Sam was pushed towards them.

                “You,” Magnus said, looking towards Cas. “I don’t understand. I thought we were making progress! We were gonna leave this place—I was gonna get you set up real nice—“

                “You son of a bitch,” Dean said.

                “Ah ah ah,” Magnus said, waving his gun. “Keep walking.” He shoved Sam forward. Sam nearly tripped, barely catching himself in the air. Dean looked towards Cas out of the corner of his eyes. Cas barely nodded.

                They walked back, past all the cages with the dead monsters inside, eyes clean out of their sockets, blood pooling down their chins.

                Dean’s stomach churned at the sight.

                Magnus kept pushing them back further down the hallway, his eyes bright and maniacal.

                “You two can’t possibly be related to Henry,” Magnus said. “Henry was a _gentleman!_ He was smart! I should’ve let Stevie kill you two instead of just scaring you off. Stevie! Stevie, sic them!”

                “Who’s Stevie?” Cas whispered lowly in Dean’s ear.

                “Hellhound,” Dean pushed past his throat. Just the thought sent ice into his veins.

                Cas squeezed his hand comfortingly. “Stevie won’t be appearing,” Cas said.

                Magnus snorted. “What makes you think so, angel?”

                “A hellhound wouldn’t be foolish enough to come near an angel,” Cas said. “I can kill it just as easily as everything else in here.”

                Magnus clenched his teeth. “Years!” He screamed, his voice carrying throughout the narrow hallway. “It took me years to gather those monsters, to work on my collection! And you destroyed it all in—in just a matter of seconds!”

                Magnus stared at the cell they had stopped next to. His face grew a furious, bright red. Dean couldn’t tell what the creature used to be; it was just a burned out husk of what it used to be.

                Magnus snapped back. “Go! Get back!” Magnus shoved Sam forward, and Dean and Cas had to step back. Dean tried to keep steady eye contact with Sam, reassure his baby brother without words.

                A stone cold wall pressed against Dean’s back. They were next to another cell, but this one was empty. Magnus wrenched open the door and pushed Sam in. He snapped the gun to Dean, arm shaking.

                “Get in, both of you!” He screamed.

                Dean and Cas walked into the cell. Magnus slammed the door shut in their faces; the bars vibrated, a low ringing sound echoing.

                “Just—just stay there,” Magnus said, pinching his nose. “I need to figure out what I’m gonna do with you!”

                Magnus spun on his heels and stormed down, every footstep sending vibrations through the ground.

                Dean spun around. Sam was standing near the back. His face was ghostly white.

                “Are you okay?”

                Sam nodded, swallowing. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little shaken up. What about you guys?”

                Cas was frowning. He was looking up to the ceiling. Dean followed his gaze and saw the warding symbols painted.

                “Sorry, man,” Dean said, slapping Cas’s shoulders.

                “I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas said. “I should have attacked him. We would not be in this predicament if I had—“

                Dean motioned for Cas to stop. “No, Cas, don’t do that. You’re right. We shouldn’t have to kill Magnus if we can help it. Even if he totally deserves it.”

                Cas sighed. “Still, it’s frustrating to be blocked from my grace once more,” Cas stared dejectedly at his hand.

                “We’ll find a way out of here,” Dean said, smiling despite himself. “Three of us versus one door: how hard can it be?”

                Sam walked up to the cell door and gripped the bars with both hands. He shook them violently, rattling dust from the ceiling. Sam rocked back and forth, throwing his weight against the bars as he shook them.

                “They’re tight,” Sam said. He lowered himself down and examined the lock. “I don’t have my pick set, but it probably wouldn’t do any good. This thing looks super reinforced.”

                “Magnus will probably be back,” Cas said. “We’ll just have to wait for him.”

                Cas walked towards the back corner and lowered himself onto the stack of blankets stacked in a messy pile. Dean sighed and went to join Cas. Cas pressed himself against Dean’s side. Dean threw his arm around Cas’s shoulder and entwined their hands together.

                He hated this. Hated that he had to just sit and wait. He was a man of action. Being forced to sit here, for who knows how long…It was the same reason he forced himself to walk on a sprained ankle to search for Cas. He had to be doing something. The nothingness would drive him insane.

                “I’m sorry, Dean.”

                Dean turned his head. “Huh?”

                “You were right. I should have killed him when I had the chance.” Cas stared down at his hand, clenching it into a tight fist. “We would be free if—“

                “Hey, no,” Dean said. His throat felt dry. “It’s not your fault; and anyway, he had a gun to Sam’s head. You did the right thing.”

                Cas sighed and knocked his head against the stone wall.

                Sam kicked at the gate. The bars banged loudly, and Sam kicked at it again. The sounds built on top of one another, echoing in the small chamber. Sam kicked at the door until he was red in the face, sweat beading down from his brow.

                “Sam, knock it out!” Dean said eventually, when the noise began to make his teeth ache.

                Sam panted and rubbed at his face. “We’re really just supposed to wait here for that psychopath to come back?”

                “Yes,” Cas said. “That’s our best chance of escaping.”

                Sam sighed and walked over to join Sam and Dean. He slide down to the floor, pressed against the adjacent wall. He stretched his legs out and rubbed at his knees.

                Dean sniffed. “If anything,” he said, “I should be saying sorry, Cas.”

                “Why?”

                Dean shared a look with Sam. “This whole mess is our fault,” Dean said. “We didn’t realize things between you and Dad were so….bad.” Dean frowned. “Bad” was a serious understatement to the situation, but Dean couldn’t think of what else to say that wouldn’t send his blood pressure skyrocketing.

                “You are not responsible for your father’s actions,” Cas said, in his typical calm-Castiel manner. “Besides, I didn’t realize things were bad between us, either.”

                “What do you mean?” Dean asked.

                “I didn’t realize John harbored such hatred towards me,” Cas said. “I thought….” Cas traced an indecipherable image into concrete with his fingertip. “In those movies we watch—“

                “You mean those movies you two make me watch,” Dean said.

                “I’ve noticed, Dean, in those movies, when the couple begins their courtship, it’s important that they get along with their partner’s parents.  I thought….”

                Dean hated seeing that look in Cas’s eyes.

                “Cas, what happened?” Dean asked gently.

                Cas swallowed.

                “I was reading…”

                Dean suspected Cas was leaving out several details, but he didn’t mention it. What Cas did divulge made Dean angry; Cas saying how John met him outside the motel room under the guise of wanting to talk, John leading him to the Impala, putting those cuffs on him. Cas paused often. Dean suspected Cas was deciding what he should and shouldn’t mention—Dean wanted to yell at Cas, demand that Cas tell him everything that happened, every second, but he kept quiet. Cas was traumatized by the experience, even if he would never admit it. Dean wouldn’t push Cas to tell anything Cas didn’t want to.

                But he was so angry. He wished he’d done more than just smack his dad around a little. John had tortured Cas. He should’ve suffered like Cas did.

                “You shouldn’t be angry,” Cas said.

                Dean snorted. “Seriously? Why the hell not? Cas, look what he did to you!”

                “I’m okay,” Cas said. He rubbed his thumb across the back of Dean’s hand. “He’s still your father.”

                “Is that supposed to mean something?” Dean snapped.

                “I believe your father only ever had your and Sam’s best interests in mind.”

                Dean sighed. “He thinks you put some kind of mind-whammy on us to make us like you.”

                “I’m aware,” Cas said. “I wasn’t sure at first what he was asking about.” Cas tilted his head into the crook of Dean’s neck.

                “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you,” Dean said. “But we were always looking—at least, we thought we were looking. Dad was leading us away, though, and—“

                “I know,” Cas said. “I could hear your prayers.”

                Something deeply rooted inside Dean’s chest uncoiled hearing that. God, he was pathetic.

                “You probably got tired of hearing me, huh?” Dean said.

                “On the contrary,” Cas said. “Hearing both of your prayers was the only stimulation I had. It was very boring in here.”

                Dean turned to look at Sam. He didn’t know that Sam had been praying to Cas; it made sense, he supposed, but it wasn’t something he ever gave much thought. He knew Sam used to pray every night, before they all realized that God left for a pack of cigarettes. He wondered if it was different to Sam, praying to God versus praying to Cas.

                Dean had only ever known how to pray to Cas. And he knew that even if Cas couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer, he at least heard Dean.

                Dean bit his lip.

                It _was_ boring in here, though. The torturous kind of boring, where it felt like your brain was melting, like something was scratching at your skin, digging through flesh and muscle and bone. He had only been here for a few minutes—not even an hour, he was sure. He didn’t know how Cas had been able to stand it for weeks.

                “Well, at least we’re all together,” Sam said. “Whatever comes our way, we can deal with it together.”

                Dean merely hummed in acknowledgement. He still was barely keeping himself from shaking, in worry, in fear, in anger. He looked around the dungeon, at the conditions Cas had to endure for the last two weeks. There was nothing in the room but the ratty blankets they were sitting on; and the stone walls and floor sucked all the heat out of the room, leaving it stone cold.

                Dean imaged wrapping his hands around Magnus’s chicken neck and shaking him. Cas didn’t want to kill humans, and Dean agreed with him. They were supposed to protect people.

                But when people hurt his family, all bets were off.

                More time ticked by; silence had long fallen over the trio like a blanket, but Dean was content with it as long as Cas and Sam were by his side and they were okay. Besides, the silence gave him opportunity to think and plan their escape.

                It was obvious now that they weren’t going to be able to bust through the bars, not even with their combined strength. Sam still had his weapons, though, the demon and angel blade, the Colt. If Magnus did show back up eventually, like Cas said he would, they would have three against one, Magnus versus the most powerful weapons ever forged.

                They just had to wait.

                It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than sitting around with their thumbs up their asses.

                Dean shared his plan with Sam and Cas.

                “That’s a stupid plan,” Sam said. “Seriously, you think it’s gonna be that easy?”

                “Hey, unless you’ve got any bright ideas laying around that you wanna share, shut up. He obviously was too stupid to take our weapons from us, so let’s use our friggin’ weapons!”

                “Dean, this guy’s got some of the most powerful magic I’ve ever seen!”

                “And we’ve got magic weapons! What’s your point, Sam?”

                “It can’t be that easy! When has anything in our lives ever been as easy as it’s seemed?”

                “Cas, back me up on this, please.”

                “I’m not sure I want to be involved, actually.”

                “You are involved, dumbass, you’re stuck here too! And goddamnit, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

                Cas sighed and bit his lip. “Your plan works well in theory, but as Sam has said—Magnus is much more powerful than he appears, Dean. His knowledge of the supernatural supersedes that of any mere mortal, and he knows dark, magic spells. We have to tread on the side of caution.”

                “Caution my ass,” Dean said. “We each take a weapon. Sure once the guy has three in his face, he’ll piss his pants and either let us go, or we kill him and still get to go. Unless you guys have any other suggestions you want to throw out there?”

                Sam and Cas remained silent. Sam reached behind him and pulled out the angel and demon blade. He handed them to Dean and Cas. Dean wrapped his hand around the demon blade tightly, squeezing it.

                More time passed. Dean stared down at his watch, but it only made him depressed; the second hand was ticking so slow, dragging out twice as long as it should’ve seemed, and the hour hand moved even slower than that.

                The boredom was maddening; Dean pressed his head against the concrete wall. It was cold, and numbing. Dean let his eyes slip. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just a little rest.

                He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he woke; it was sudden and startling. A loud banging noise shook the entire cell. Dean jumped and yelped, instinctively reaching for his weapon, pressing the blade tightly between his fingers.

                Magnus stood outside the bars. One hand was wrapped tightly around a bar, white-knuckled against the black. His eyes were glued onto the blade Dean had in his hand.

                “You shouldn’t play with knives,” Magnus said. “You’ll cut yourself.”

                “What a shame that’d be,” Dean said. “I could cut you instead.”

                Magnus huffed and grinned; his smile seemed so malicious now, nothing like the earlier, warm, grandfatherly smile he had earlier. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Dean,” Magnus said.

                “Release us,” Cas said, standing to his feet. Dean swallowed and tensed at the sight. Cas wasn’t back up to speed; his grace was blocked and he was, for all intents and purposes, more human than angel right now.

                But he was still an angel. That wasn’t something that would ever go away, Fallen or not, whether he was welcome or banished from Heaven. It coursed through his veins. Here now, he stood tall and straight, chin up, voice powerful and stern, exactly like it’d been when he and Dean first met; like it’d been where Cas said to him, “You should show me some respect.”

                Magnus snorted. “I don’t think so. You’re much more trouble than you’re worth, little angel. I should have you and your barbarous human masters killed for the damage you’ve caused. Hundreds of thousands! My life’s work, ruined and destroyed! I’ve been thinking long and hard about it, what I should do with you lot. Killing you seems like such a waste, though. I’ve decided I might as well cut my losses. Your transport is still on its way. You and these—“ Magnus looked at Dean and Sam, disgust plainly written on his face, “—hunters, will be put on there, and I’ll get whatever I can for you three, and continue on with my life.”

                Castiel lunged towards the bars. He reached through and gripped Magnus by the shirt collar, pulling him against the bars. Magnus’s cheek was pressed between them. Cas had his angel blade pressed against the dip in Magnus’s throat.

                “I wasn’t asking,” Castiel said lowly.

                Magnus was unfazed for someone who had a knife held at their neck.

                “Neither was I,” Magnus said evenly. “You are in no position to be making threats, angel. You kill me, well, you’re still trapped in here—and the transport still comes. So put the knives away—you too, Samuel, hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s dangerous to play with daddy’s guns?”

                “You think we’re afraid of you, you pansy—“ Dean began.

                Magnus raised a hand and suddenly, Dean couldn’t speak. It was like his lips had been glued shut. Dean looked to Sam, who was suffering the same condition. Sam was rubbing at his jaw and lips, but he couldn’t force his mouth open. Cas looked towards him over his shoulder—there was a storm brewing underneath his eyes, all that power shoved into a cage of flesh and bone, barely contained.

                “What did you do to them?” There was a high pitch whine in the air. Dean winced and had to cover his ears with his hands. Magnus flinched too, grinding his teeth together.

                It was Cas’s true voice. Dean knew it, he didn’t need to be told. That particular ear bleeding pitch wasn’t something he could ever forget.

                Cas swallowed. “Undo what you’ve done,” Cas said slowly, obviously trying to keep his pitch in something humans could make out. He pressed his blade closer against Magnus’s neck—just a breath and the blade would pierce the thin, sensitive skin and slip into his trachea.

                “Take that knife away from my throat and we’ll discuss terms,” Magnus said. Dean would have to give the man some credit, no matter how much he despised to do so—he clearly could keep calm in a crisis.

                “No,” Cas said. “These are the terms. Undo what you’ve done to them, release us immediately, and we won’t kill you.”

                Magnus laughed and shook his head. “No, angel, here’s what’s gonna happen. You take your fancy blade away from my neck, you and your deplorable friends stay in that cage, and I don’t inflict worse damage. You do remember what I’m capable of, don’t you? Or do you need a reminder?”

                Dean squinted at that. What had Magnus done? Cas said Magnus mostly left him alone—had he been lying? If he had lied, Dean was going to punch him in the face.

                “I’m not afraid of you,” Cas said.

                Magnus smirked. “You should be.”

                Magnus said something, low, scratchy—Dean knew it was Enochian, even if he didn’t what the words were. Cas tensed, every muscle pulling taut; the veins in his neck popped through his skin and his eyes clouded over, turning filmy and gray.

                Cas fell to the ground, his blade clanking beside him. Cas’s limbs pulled close to his core body and then he began to shake.

                “Cas!” Dean said—he hadn’t realized Magnus had released whatever spell it was, the cry tore out of Dean’s throat instinctually. Dean lunged towards Cas, Sam millimeters behind him. Dean turned Cas onto the fetal position. Cas was still seizing, his eyes rolled back into his head. His head pounded against the concrete.

                “Shit, shit, shit!” Dean screamed, trying desperately to remember basic first aid. He felt useless, pathetic; Dad would be ashamed. Dad had instilled basic first aid into Dean since he was four. Dad had made Dean remember every bone in the human body, every organ, CPR; how to stitch a wound, what to do for a concussion—there must’ve been a lesson on seizures in there somewhere, but now in the heat of the moment, when it really mattered, Dean couldn’t recall any of it.

                How could angels even have seizures?

                Magnus was still speaking in that low voice, the syllables spilling easily past his lips.

                “Stop it!” Dean cried. Sam was working beside him, but Dean blocked him out. Sam’s hands were faster, larger.

                “Dean, don’t panic now,” Sam’s voice broke through to Dean. Dean looked at his baby brother and tried to focus on Sam’s face and eyes, drawn and calm, collected, just like they always were in a crisis. Sam lunged for the pile of blankets coiled in the corner and hastily folded them. He shoved them underneath Cas’s head, a desperate attempt to provide some cushioning between the hard ground and Cas’s poor, bleeding head.

                “Hold his head,” Sam instructed patiently. Dean swallowed and nodded. He moved his hands and cradled Cas’s head in his hands. Dean had to hold tightly, Cas’s head still shaking in his hands. Dean’s hand grew wet with blood.

                Dean turned to look over his shoulder, growling. “Stop it! I’ll kill you!” Dean was already imagining it. “I’ll rip your heart out through your throat!”

                Magnus sighed, bored. “I could do worse, you know.”

                When Dean got his hands on that bastard—

                “Cas, hang on buddy,” Dean whispered in Cas’s ear. Cas’s teeth were ground hard together.

                Magnus stopped repeating his spell. All sound was sucked out of the room, except for Cas’s pained, panicked breathing—he had stopped seizing, and now was still as stone, gasping for air like a drowning man. Dean could only sit there uselessly, carding his fingers through Cas’s hair, trying to offer pathetic reassurance. He looked up to Magnus, threats resting on his tongue prepared to lash out, but it died in his throat the minute he saw John Winchester kneeling on the ground, his hand wrapped tightly around Magnus’s throat.

 


	34. John

CH 33

                John heard voices from as soon as he entered the mansion, and he followed them down a long hallway, down a staircase into a strange basement with large cages built into the walls. John peered inside the cage and recoiled at the sight of a werewolf, eyes burned away, blood dried and running from the corners of its mouth.

                He had to look away though when he heard shouting.

                “ _Stop it!_ ” It was Dean’s voice. “I’ll kill you! You son of a bitch, I’ll rip your heart out through your throat!”

                “You don’t seem to be in any position to be making threats, old sport.”

                Magnus.

                Naomi’s silhouette appeared by the corner of John’s eyes, face stern and pointed. Naomi was only there for a second before it vanished, like it was never there—and John wasn’t sure if it had been there or if he had merely imagined it—but it jostled him back into action, sprinting down the narrow hallway. He only had a few hours left before his three days were up, and Naomi would kill him and throw him back onto the racks in Hell.

                Where he found Magnus, he would find the angel.

                John wasn’t going back to Hell.

                His feet pounded against the concrete. The voices got louder, and he could make them out clearly. Dean was shouting and swearing, and even now and then Sam’s voice would rise above his brother’s, snarling and threatening. Magnus’s voice was unfazed the entire time.

                “I could do worse, you know,” Magnus said. Magnus said something John couldn’t make out; it was in another language, low and guttural, more consonants than vowels, nearly animalistic.

                Something pierced through the air. A sharp, sudden gasp of pain.

                “Cas,” Dean cried. “Hang on, buddy.”

                John saw Magnus standing at the end of the hallway, before the last of the cages, and he raged. Magnus had put his boys in one of the cages!

                The rage went down to John’s bones, fired in the synapses of his brain, and he saw nothing, he knew nothing, but this rage.

                “You,” John snarled, slamming into Magnus. Sam and Dean both called “Dad?” in surprise, but John ignored them as he shoved Magnus to the ground, hand tightening around Magnus’s throat. Magnus kicked and clawed at John’s hand and face, turning white. “What the hell have you done to my boys?”

                “Dad,” Dean said, pressing up against the bars. Dean stuck his hand through and tried to reach for John. His hand barely missed, catching the air in between them.

                Pinpricks of blood appeared in the whites of Magnus’s eyes. He made a low whining noise.

                “Dad!”

                “Shut up, Dean,” John snapped.

                “Oh my god,” Sam said, gasping.

                John tightened his hand further. All expression vanished from Magnus’s face. His hand fell away, limp, onto the concrete. John stayed there for a moment, until he was certain, and then he turned to Dean and Sam. He saw the angel laying in there too, curled on his side facing away from the bars. It was panting, its shoulders rising and falling rapidly, small tremors coursing through its body.

                Dean and Sam were staring at John, their jaws slightly open, faces drained of color.

                “Are you boys okay?” John said.

                Sam and Dean shared a minute look between them; just a passing glance. But John saw.

                “We’re okay, Dad,” Sam said. “Uh, how did you get here?”

                There was hesitance in Sam’s voice, and an undercurrent of barely contained rage. Sam’s hand was reaching out towards the angel, not quite touching it, but close enough that the angel would be able to feel the heat radiating from Sam’s palm.

                John’s jaw tightened. “Your demon friend helped me,” John said bitterly.

                Sam’s eyes widened. Dean’s did too, briefly, fractionally, and then it was gone, replaced by that typical Dean Winchester anger.

                “You made a deal,” Dean said tonelessly. Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “Un-fucking-believable. After all that shit you gave us—“

                “I didn’t sell my soul,” John snapped. “Not that you’d care anyway. The demon sent me here, in exchange for never having to make a deal with it again. Not from you two. Now, it looks like you two are in a bit of a jam. Wouldn’t you like my help in getting out?”

                There were a set of keys hanging from Magnus’s belt loop. John unhooked it, jangling them as he stood up and began to examine them. There were over a dozen, unique and silver keys with no distinct markings on them anywhere. John had no choice but to try them one by one.

                He jammed the first key into the lock harder than necessary. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t fit. John growled as he shoved the second key, and the third, and by the fourth the veins in his forehead were throbbing.

                Every now and then, John’s eyes would slip from the keyring, or the lock, to inside the cage, the angel flanked by Sam and Dean. It had stopped panting, and was nearly still as stone, except for the occasional twitch in its shoulders. Dean had pressed his hand towards the angel, his fingers ghosting over the angel’s back. John couldn’t believe the affection held in such a small gesture; Dean’s expression did it no justice. Taking in that hardened anger, one wouldn’t expect Dean to be capable of such tenderness, and here it was on full display, Dean making no effort to hide it.

                That wasn’t the Dean John knew.

                On the eighth key, he glanced into the cage and saw Naomi standing in the corner, staring down at the angel with barely contained hatred and pity, an ever present stern scowl pointed down at it.

                His fingers slipped and the keyring fell to the ground. John cursed and bent down to pick it up. When he glanced back into the cage, Naomi was gone. John swallowed and handled the keyring, trying to find where he’d been.

                He didn’t have much time left.

                He had to kill the angel now. It should be so easy; it was right there, helpless and in pain, probably wouldn’t have any chance of defending itself.

                But his boys were there, pitted against him, and they would do anything to protect the monster, even defy and fight their own father. John didn’t want to hurt his sons, he was trying to protect them—save their souls and their lives, even if they didn’t realize it. If he had to hurt them a little to ultimately save them, he would.

                But he had to know how far gone his boys were, if there was even a possibility of saving them.

                “Dean,” John said, “what have you done with it? What have you given it?”

                “Fuck you, Dad, if this is another one of your fucking—“

                “Have you slept with it?” John spat.

                Dean’s face paled. “Wh-“ he stuttered. “What kind of question is that?”

                “Answer me, Dean.”

                Dean sputtered some more, looking between Sam, and the monster and John. “No!” He said, piercing. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no!”

                John sagged forward. His knees felt like jelly, and the heavy tension that had settled deep inside his stomach was gone, as though it had just flown away.

                “Oh God,” John said. He felt tears press behind his eyes, threaten to fall. “Oh, thank God.”

                Dean was okay; his soul was okay. There was no sort of claim on it. John rubbed at his eyes and sniffed. He tried to swallow down the tears, but he couldn’t do it. The relief was just too strong, and his legs struggled to support his weight. He looked at Dean through the metal bars. He felt the tears slip out past his eyes—Dean and Sam watched it with horror. John realized, they’d probably never seen him cry.

                “I love you boys,” John said. “I love you so much. I don’t want you to suffer, I’ve never wanted you to suffer. I only wanted to protect you.”

                “Could’ve fooled me,” Dean spat bitterly. He was curled over the angel. The angel’s eyes were open and listless, tracking something along the ceiling. It moaned quietly, and Dean’s eyes slipped from John to the angel and—

                And.

                There was something there.

                The rage Dean had presented him was gone, and he looked down at the angel with concern, affection, and worry. It was nothing like the gaze John had faced down, and it had changed in less than a second, only taking Dean to look at the angel to shift.

                It reminded John of the teenage couple they saw at the diner all those weeks back, sharing a milkshake, giggling and staring at each other.

                They way Dean looked at that angel…

                It was the way John felt about Mary. Maybe. He knew what he felt about Mary—was that how he looked at Mary?

                John shook his head. He couldn’t let himself be distracted. He had a mission. And he was running out of time.

                He tried one more key, and elation coursed through his veins when it fit. He turned the key and slide the door open. Sam was on his feet instantly, the Colt pointed towards John.

                “You really gonna shoot me?” John asked. “After I just saved you boys, you still think I’m the bad guy in this situation?”

                “You still gonna try and hurt Cas?” Sam said evenly.

                “Sam, listen to me—“

                “No, you listen to me!” Dean cried. “I don’t know what you believe, I don’t care what you believe, it’s not true! Cas is family, whether you like or not.”

                “I can’t explain,” John began, but Dean scoffed, and then it turned into a desperate, humorless laugh.

                “Oh, you ‘can’t explain’. ‘Can’t explain’ why you won’t accept the truth, ‘can’t explain’ why you want to get rid of our best friend and my—“

                “Your what, Dean?” John said.

                “Just forget it,” Dean said. “You don’t deserve to know.”

                Naomi was there again, in the same corner. Naomi walked forward, high heels clacking on the concrete. John clenched his fist and quickly assessed Sam and Dean; they really couldn’t see Naomi. They couldn’t see the truth, see what was really there. Naomi’s eyes were dark and daring; reminding him, John realized.

                “It’s either it dies, or I die,” John said.

                Confusion flashed across both Sam and Dean’s faces.

                “I know what brought me back,” John said darkly. “It was one of them.” John remembered that first night, the angel looming over him, eyes piercing past John’s skin and skull, into his soul. It had said that it had to be an angel or a demon to bring him back to life.

                It turned out to be right.

                “An angel brought you back?” Sam said.

                John nodded. “To kill that one,” John said. “If its own kind wants it dead…well, that says all it needs to say, doesn’t it?”

                “No!” Dean and Sam shouted. John was taken aback by the volume of their voices, and the rage that coated it.

                “No, fuck—“ Dean sputtered. “The angels _hate_ him! They—they look for any excuse to hurt him, or to kill him and—and they’re all—“

                “They’re dicks,” Sam supplied. “Complete, total, manipulative, evil dicks. Cas is better than any of them could ever hope to be!”

                “Yeah,” Dean said. “The angels don’t care, Dad. About anything. Heaven is like a—bureaucracy. They torture each other to keep them in line. Cas is nothing like any of them.”

                “The angel that brought me back,” John said slowly. His jaw ached. “Boys, I have less than five hours to kill it,” he pointed to the angel, still laying so still on the floor, “or the angel will kill me, and send me back to Hell.”

                “We’re not going to let that happen,” Sam said. “But we’re not going to let you hurt Cas, either. Nobody is going to die!”

                “That’s not an option,” John said.

                Back inside the cell, the angel made a tinny, pathetic noise. Sam and Dean immediately turned their necks to look down at it. Dean knelt forward at an uncomfortable angle, head arching so he could look the angel in its eyes.

                “Hey, Cas,” Dean said, twirling his fingers in the angel’s dark, tangled hair. “How’re you feeling?”

                John couldn’t see the angel’s eyes from this angle, but he could see Sam’s—he could see the barely concealed terror that swam in his son’s dark, hooded eyes.

                The angel didn’t speak.

                “We’ve got to get him out from under these wards,” Sam said. “Shit, his head’s still bleeding! Dean, he might have a brain bleed.”

                Dean turned and looked at John. Now it was Dean’s eyes that were hooded and angry, hands wrapped tightly around the angel’s shoulders.

                “I swear to fucking God Dad, you touch him, all bets are off.”

                John was stuck frozen in the doorway.

                Mary’s father hadn’t supported their engagement. When they announced it to Samuel and Deanna Campbell, and Samuel spewed his every deliberately hurtful ammunition he had against John, Mary stepped in. She placed herself between John and her father, and she looked her father straight in the eye and said, “This is happening whether you want it or not”.

                John knew Mary had never spoken to her father in such a way.

                Much like how Dean never raised his voice to John.

                Dean pulled the angel up onto unsteady feet. Sam was at the angel’s other side at once, and it was now between both boys—the boys supporting all its weight.

                Dean pressed his lips close to the angel’s ear and whispered something. John couldn’t hear any of it.

                John had no choice but to move once Dean and Sam moved close. He was in too much shock to do anything else.

                The brothers pulled the angel out of the cage. It was immediate. As soon as they stepped over the invisible line between freedom and captivity, the angel’s eyes shot open and it sucked in a breath like a drowning man. Its knees straightened, and its back too, going the typical ramrod tight John always saw it with.

                “Cas?” Dean said. “You okay?”

                The angel nodded.

                “Good,” Dean said. Then he shoved the angel harshly with his shoulder. The angel didn’t budge. “Damn it, Cas, go!”

                The angel stumbled a bit then, but its eyes locked with John’s and flickered with something unworldly, something John couldn’t make out—it wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite pity—something untranslatable.

                The angel’s eyes slide over to Dean and Sam.

                “We’ll be fine,” Dean said, and John could feel it this time, like sand slipping between his fingers. He lunged towards the angel—

                And tripped over empty space, falling to the ground. He briefly heard faint flapping before the ache in his face registered.

                “Damn it!” Dean yelled. “Are you fucking serious? Damn it, Dad!”

                A hand too big to be Dean’s latched onto John’s shoulder and hoisted him up.

                “I want to punch you so bad,” Sam said, beet red in the face.

                John yanked himself out of Sam’s grip.

                “I’m going to die!” He screamed. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? I’m going to die, I’m going to Hell, and you’re going to let it happen! You’re—you’re actually choosing that _thing_ over me? It’s not human Dean—“

                “He’s more human than you’ve ever been,” Dean said, pointing an accusing finger. It wasn’t a yell; in fact, Dean’s voice softened, but every word was infused with potent malice.

                John stepped back, speechless.

                “We’ll help you with the angel,” Dean said. “You’re not going to die. And you’re not going to Hell. But after we’re through with this—we’re done. Capische? I never want to see you again.”

                “I’m your father,” John said weakly.

                Dean’s nose scrunched up. “So?” he shrugged. “Just cause we share some chromosomes or something, we’re supposed to get along? Hold hands, sing Kumbaya? Fuck you.”

                “Dean—“

                “What’s this angel’s name?” Dean said. He turned to Sam. “If we have a name, maybe we could do a summoning. Bring it out, kill it, call it a day.”

                “Naomi,” John said dryly.

                “Never heard of her,” Dean said.

                John ground his teeth together. “I keep seeing it. I’ve been seeing it, ever since I woke up and was alive.”

                Sam and Dean at least had the decency to pale at the admission. For reason though, it didn’t make John feel any better. It only boiled the bitterness that ran his blood. His head pounded. For a moment, his vision went fuzzy, a low pitched whine screaming in his ear.

                Then it was gone.

                Cold sweat pooled on John’s brow.

                “Why didn’t you tell us, Dad?” Dean said.

                “I-“ John’s breath caught. “I didn’t know what it was. I thought I was going crazy. I—“ John swallowed. His throat felt as narrow as a drinking straw. It was a struggle to get air inside his lungs.

                _Control yourself, Winchester!_ He snapped at himself. He clenched his fist tightly. _Act like a fucking man._

                This was ridiculous. He should be better than this. He became the man of the household when he was still knee high, after Henry Winchester left one cold night and never came home. He’d been a Marine. Fought in Vietnam when he was barely out of high school, got caught in the turmoil of the environment, lost in the storms of Agent Orange as it clouded around him and his platoon—and that had been the easy part of his life.

                He’d seen vampires and werewolves, demons—been to the depths of Hell and back. One angel shouldn’t scare him so much.

                But he didn’t want to go back to Hell.

                Sam and Dean were staring at him. Waiting for an answer. John swallowed, cold, burning air.

                “It doesn’t matter,” John finished, swallowed. “You boys have made your choice, haven’t you?” John laughed bitterly, looked to the empty space of air where the angel had been—where opportunity had slipped out of John’s hands once more, signing his own death warrant. “It’s coming for me at midnight,” John continued. “If your little pet angel isn’t kaput by then, then it’s me it’s gonna go after. And it said it’ll send me on a one-way ticket back to Hell, so….”

                “Dad,” Sam said seriously. “We’re not letting that happen. But you have to let us help you.”

                “You can help me by killing that thing!” John shouted.

                “No,” Dean snapped. He was so angry, veins popping from underneath his skin, jaw tight, eyes burning, burning, bright. The gaze froze John in his spot for a moment. He felt like he was under water, phantom pains of blades running down soft, naked skin, a voice wiggling in his ear, singings; crystal white eyes with a fire burning underneath them.

                “We are not doing that,” Dean continued, leaving no room for argument in his voice and tone. Hearing that tone, that volume, it was worse than being struck. John would’ve rather Dean hit him again than use that tone, flaunt that disrespect. He used to hear other parents say that your children will eventually break your heart; John had thought they were being melodramatic.

                He understood it in that moment, knees barely holding his own weight, an ache beating between his ears, lungs burning; there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room to keep him steady.

                “There’s no other way,” John managed to spit out.

                “Of course there’s another way,” Dean said. “There’s always another way! Sam and me, we always find another way. The world is still spinning ‘cause we found another way. Cas and I busted out of Purgatory ‘cause we found another way. There was another way then, there’s another way now. But you have to let us help you.”

                John had never been a crier; not since he was a child and he woke up to the news of his heartbroken mother that Dad wasn’t coming back. He hadn’t cried at his wedding, or the birth of either Dean and Sam. He hadn’t even cried when Mary died, instead shoving it deep down into the pit of his stomach, numbing it down with hard whiskey and the blood of monsters.

                He thought he might cry now, though. Because Dean believed what he was saying. He had the same conviction in his tone that the preacher had all the way back in Ohio, when John first woke up.

                It was hard to believe that had hardly been a month ago. It seemed to stretch far on in his memory.

                His sons were trying to help him, but not for love. For loyalty. Because he might be their blood, but he wasn’t their family anymore. They’d made that plainly obvious, John thought. He wasn’t their family anymore, but that monster was. That _thing_.

                Maybe John already ran out of time. Maybe this was his new version of Hell, and instead of Alastair being there holding the blade, it was Sam and Dean; only they cut into him with words and betrayal.

                John never imagined words hurting this much.

                “So, Naomi,” Sam said to Dean. “You think Cas might know something about her?”

                Dean shook his head. “Even if he does, we’re not dragging Cas into this. Not bringing him around any angels if we can help it, especially ones that brought our dad back from the dead to _kill him._ ”

                “I don’t like it either, Dean,” Sam said. “But we might not have a choice. As long as Cas is away from these wards, he’ll be juiced up. He can handle it.”

                “Just because he can doesn’t mean he should have to.”

                “No,” Sam said, but John could tell his patience was wearing. “But he might have to anyway. Look, we’ll deal with Dad’s thing first. Cas will be fine.”

                Dean still looked unconvinced, but his jaw twitched in defeat. “Fine,” he said. He turned to John. “Let’s get your thing dealt with first.”


	35. Dean

CH 33

                Dean shoved past John and stalked up the stairs. He avoided looking at the corpses of all the various monsters in the cages, acid curdling in his gut. He didn’t want to be reminded what kind of conditions Cas had been kept in these last few weeks. Caged, like a pet.             

Dean didn’t expect to feel this way after finding Cas. Things were supposed to be okay. They were supposed to be together.

                Now they were apart again. And they had to be apart, at least until John packed his shit and hit the road, and Dean didn’t have to worry about John hurting Cas again. If he could help it, he wouldn’t let John anywhere near Cas ever again.

                _Just hang out somewhere safe, Cas_ Dean prayed. _We gotta settle somethings with Dad, but it won’t take long._

                Dean thought about asking Cas if he knew an angel named Naomi, and then decided against it. Dragging Cas into angel things was always a bad idea; Dean would rather Cas never come near another angel ever again. That never worked out well for anyone.

                Dean heard Sam and John’s heavy footsteps behind him. Dean didn’t look back until he was out the front door of Magnus’s house, looking forward at the setting sun. It would be dark in just a few more minutes. Dean wondered where Cas had gone.

                Sam and John came outside. Dean and Sam sat on the bottom of the porch steps.

                “Tell us everything you know,” Dean said. He listened as John spoke of the strange dream he had three days ago, and how the angel Naomi claimed she had brought John back to life for the sole purpose of killing Castiel. Then John flushed a deep red and backtracked as he explained he’d seen flashes of a strange, stern looking woman who seemed to appear and disappear into thin air ever since he woke up, alive.

                “But,” Dean said, anger surging through him, “Cas asked you if you were seeing anything strange. You told him you weren’t.”

                “I lied,” John spat.

                “Why?” Dean was near hysteria, his voice cracking.

                John at least had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. “I didn’t trust it.”

                Dean groaned and buried his face in his hands.

                “Cas is not an “it””, he screamed into his hands.

                “This isn’t the kind of shit you lie about,” Sam said. By his tone, he was just as pissed as Dean was. “You could have saved all of us a lot more trouble had you just told the truth from the beginning!”

                “Really? I would’ve saved you trouble?” John said. He snorted. “The angel still would’ve been hanging around and—“

                Dean couldn’t take it. He stood to his feet and glared at his father, hand clenched into a tight fist. It took every iota of his self-control not to smash it into his dad’s face. John still had fading bruises around his face from the last time they saw each other, just a few days ago; when John admitted to selling Cas to get him away from Sam and Dean.

                And Dean couldn’t lie; it had felt good, punching his dad. The hit had twenty years of pent up rage behind it, quid pro quo for everything John did to Dean’s childhood.

                But Dean was tired of being angry. It was a poison. It made him do stupid things, and it hurt himself and the people around him.

                And Dean also wanted to be a better man than his father; a man who didn’t need to use his fists to solve every problem. Dean chewed on his lower lip.

                “Look,” Dean said, tonelessly. “I’m past it, okay? I don’t care what you think Cas is or isn’t—Sammy and I know the truth, and the truth, whether you like it or not—Cas is family. He’s been lookin’ out for me and Sammy ever since we met. He’s been there more for us in six years than you were my entire life. And you’re just gonna have to deal with that. Got it?”

                John wanted to say something—Dean knew that look. But John just swallowed.

                “What are we going to do about Naomi?” John said.

                “Maybe we can put a bullet from the Colt through her head,” Dean said in mock cheerfulness. “I mean, you shot Cas, right? What’s stopping you from shooting this feathered freak?”

                “Dean, Naomi is powerful,” John said through gritted teeth. “Naomi is stronger than your winged pet—“

                “No,” Dean snapped. “You don’t get to say anything bad about Cas. You want our help, fine. But you play by our rules, got it?”

                John’s jaw ticked. “Yes,” he said.

                “And Dad?” Sam spoke up from his spot on the steps. “Um, Cas isn’t weak. Not a bit. He could kill you with a snap of his fingers—he’s just not a complete dick and chooses not to.”

                Dean huffed and looked back to his Dad. Dad had no clue how bad all the other angels actually were: selfish, greedy, maniacal. Cas could be a pig headed son of a bitch, but he _cared_ , unlike every other dick with wings they’d come across. If Dad really was going to stay on this train of believing Cas was evil, he was going to be in for a sorry surprise when he learned otherwise.

  The sun had set, and they were cast in darkness. Dean checked his watch and had to bring his wrist nearly to his face to be able to read it. It was just past eight o clock—they had four hours to find this Naomi angel and ice her ass—and once that was done, Dean, Sam and Cas would go their way, John could go his, and if they never crossed paths for the rest of their lives, well, Dean wouldn’t be too torn up about it. He couldn’t be, not after what John did to Cas. Dean wouldn’t ever be able to forgive John for the shit he put on Dean as a child, but he could look past; it he had too, most of the time, to be able to take care of Sammy and focus on what was important: the hunts, saving people and killing monsters.

                But this wasn’t something that could be forgiven, or looked past. It was one thing for John to hurt Dean; it was a whole other for him to hurt someone else, be it Sam or Cas, or some other innocent person. Dean wouldn’t stand for it.

                “Well,” Dean said, “what’s the plan then?” The sooner they dealt with this Naomi bitch, the sooner they could be on their way, John once again just a shrinking image in the Impala’s rearview mirror.

                “Do we have the supplies for a summoning?” Sam asked.

                “Don’t know,” Dean said, shrugging. “We got a jug of holy oil, though.” Dean looked back to John. “I mean, we used to have two, but unfortunately, something happened to other one. Any ideas where that other jug went, Dad?”

                John’s face remained terse.

                Dean huffed.

                “Dean,” Sam said. Sam’s voice was taut. “Look, I’m pissed too, but we’re gonna have to work together to defeat this angel. Stow the crap.”

                Dean knew Sam was right. He and Sam, and even he and Cas, have had their share of massive shitstorms and had to put it all behind them to move forward and focus on the task at hand, put all their attention on the new disaster they had to deal with.

                But this…something about this, and his Dad, just went deep down into the tattered remains of his soul and it _stung_. He couldn’t take his mind away from how Cas—wanting to establish a friendship with John-- had gone with John that night expecting to have some kind of deep, soulful talk, only to get attacked and sold like chattel to a psychopath. And he couldn’t take his mind away from how Cas could have done something, could have defended himself and hurt John very badly with hardly any effort on his part, and he didn’t, because Cas didn’t want to hurt people, and he especially didn’t want to hurt John.

                John had betrayed Cas’s trust. He had betrayed Dean and Sam’s. And it wasn’t like the times when Team Free Will betrayed each other’s trust because…

                Because John was Dean’s dad. Dean had looked up to him, idolized him, wanted to be just like his father when he grew up. John was supposed to know better. Because when Dean was a child, John could never screw up.

                Dean supposed one of the worst things that ever happened to him, before he went to Hell, was discovering that his Dad was just as human as the rest of them.

                “We’re wasting time,” John eventually said. Even in the dark, Dean could see his father’s reddened cheeks, and he wondered if it was from rage of the wind chill.

                “Let’s look in the car,” Dean said, turning away. “See if we got the ingredients to do a summoning. If we do, we’ll set up a ring of holy fire, and be on our separate way before the fat lady sings, how about that?”

                Dean didn’t get to see John’s reaction. He stomped towards the Impala. It was eerily quiet for nighttime; Dean couldn’t hear a single cricket, or owl, no passing cars; it was like they were trapped in a vacuum.

                Dean hoped wherever Cas was, he was safe.


	36. John

CH 34

                John sat in the passenger seat, feeling like an invalid as Dean and Sam dug through the trunk and duffel bags looking for ingredients to their summoning spell.

                Despite his impending death ticking down, he was bored. Without a task, he had nothing to think about but the angel coming after him, and how his sons were only helping him because they felt obligated to and nothing else.

                He opened the glove compartment, not surprised to see the familiar cigar box crammed inside. John pulled it out and opened it, sifting through the various fake IDs Sam and Dean stashed. It was the usual stuff: FBI, CIA, Fish and Wildlife Services.

                What wasn’t the usual stuff, though, were the same IDs printed for the angel. Its face was the constant stern, concentrated gaze, like it wished it could set the camera on fire with just a look. John was surprised Sam and Dean had gone through the effort to make identification for the angel.

                John shut the lid on the cigar box and went to put it back into the glove compartment when he noticed something else in there. It was a small, digital camera. It fit right in John’s palm. He had to press several of the different buttons before he found the power one, and it booted up slowly. There was a flashing message that read LOW MEMORY.

                John pushed the gallery option.

                The first picture to pop up—the most recent one to have been taken—was a snapshot of a moment just a few days before John woke up.

                It was a picture of Sam and the angel, sitting next to each other in a cruddy, greasy diner booth—Sam’s arm was flung around the angel’s shoulder, and he was gesturing thumbs up with both hands. The food they had in front of them was grand, by diner standards. John recognized it as a celebration dinner for a hunt well done.

                John stared at it. His chest felt tight. Sam was so happy, in this captured moment. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Sam smile like that. It had to have been when Sam was still a young boy.

                John rolled his thumb over the small dial, going to the next picture. This picture had the angel sitting up on a motel bed, legs crossed and knitting needles in its hands, with Dean lying next to it, a TV remote in his hand. They didn’t appear to notice they were being photographed.

                It was so strange. They looked so comfortable, like it was just another routine for them. Like it was something they did every night. Acid curdled in the pit of John’s stomach. He clicked to the next picture: just the angel in the backseat of the Impala. The picture was taken through the rearview mirror. The angel was looking out the window, its fingertips lightly pressed against the glass.

                And in the picture, the angel didn’t look stern, or righteous, or malicious. If John didn’t know the truth already, he would mistake the angel for a man. Just a regular man.

                John couldn’t bear to look at any more photos. He powered down the camera and shut it back into the glove box, and hoped neither of his sons would notice he’d looked at it.

                John inhaled and stepped out of the car. He braced himself against the side of the Impala. Sam and Dean had pulled the duffel bags out of the trunk and were rooting through them on the dewy grass.

                But John couldn’t stop thinking about the photos. How many more were on the camera that were just like that? How many photos were _more_ than what he had seen? More private, more intimate? Something was going on between Dean and the angel. John didn’t want to think about it. But he had to. Too many things had been alluded to, between Sam and Dean and the demon, Crowley; and then there was the insistence that the angel was part of their family, especially on Dean’s part—

                And the way they looked at each other. Like they were the only beings in the whole world.

                John bit his lip. He shoved those thoughts away. “Did you find everything?” he asked. His voice was barely above a whisper.

                “We’re missing stuff,” Dean growled. “Every other day of the year, we’re up to our eyeballs in this hoodoo shit, and the one day we need it, we’re suddenly out!”

                “Murphy’s been biting us in the ass these last few weeks,” Sam said.

                “I’m gonna strangle Murphy when we find him,” Dean spat.

                John felt the color drain from his face. “So that’s it, then?” he said. Hysteria clawed at his throat and threatened to burst out into the open night sky. “I’m a dead man.” Killed by a demon, killed by an angel—it was poetic, and John might have appreciated it if it had happened to anyone else. It was never as funny when it was happening to you.

                “We still got a couple hours left, Dad,” Sam said, exasperation bleeding from his tone. “We’re not gonna let you die. One dick with wings isn’t gonna be any match against the three of us. Not with the knowledge and weapons we have against angels.”

                Dean pushed himself to his feet, loading the magazine into a gun at the same time. Dean’s movements were well-rehearsed, well-practiced; instinctual. He locked everything into place without glancing down at what his hands were doing.

                John taught him that. He remembered staying up late at night, especially those first few months after Mary’s death, drilling Dean. And when he stared at Dean in that moment, all he could see what his little four year old, legs dangling off the motel bed above the floor, with a gun in his tiny hands. And as Dean got older, the drills got harder, and John kept pushing, until Dean had been able to dis-and-reassemble a gun blindfolded.

                John’s training stuck.

                He didn’t know why that upset him as much as it did.

                “Stay by us,” Dean said. He went back to the trunk and pulled out the jug of holy oil. “Hey, Sam, you got a lighter?”

                “Yeah,” Sam said, reaching into his pocket. “You wanna set up a ring?”

                “We need a lure of some kind,” Dean said, frowning. “What can we use though to make sure she even gets in the ring?”

                “She’s coming after Dad,” Sam said.

                “You want to use me as bait?” John balked.

                Sam shrugged. “Unless you got any other bright ideas?”

                “Yeah,” John snapped. “How ‘bout the angel? It’s the one Naomi wants dead!”

                “Not happening,” Dean said. He didn’t yell, or get red in the face, like John knew he did when Dean was especially angry. Dean’s tone was flat and clipped, but overall subdued. 

                John thought back to pictures; the ones he did see and the ones he didn’t. The questions he had swirling in his mind that no one would answer.

                The look in Dean’s eyes…

                “Do you love it?” John said.

                The muscles in the back of Dean’s tight tightened. He knew Dean’s body language. John knew that was how Dean looked when he didn’t want to talk about something.

                “Okay,” Dean said. “Dad, you stand right there, okay? Don’t move. Sam and I will play lookout. We’ll be close by.”

                Dean shoved the jug of holy oil into John’s chest.

                “When Naomi comes for you, scream. Don’t let her touch you, and if you can, try and pour this on her.”

                “You didn’t answer my question,” John said.

                “Maybe you don’t deserve to know the answer,” Dean said. Dean straightened his neck and spine, made himself as tall as he possibly could. John stared at Dean; at the angry Dean, the Dean he’d always been able to rely on to be steadfast, aggressive; do the job right the first time around. The Dean John could always count on to protect baby Sammy with his own life. The same conviction Dean always held deep in his bones about protecting Sammy, he had now, for the angel.

                “You’re really not brainwashed,” John said tonelessly.

                Dean snorted. “No shit.”

                “You’re actually choosing this monster over me.”

                John would’ve rather Sam and Dean be brainwashed than for them to constantly be defending and protecting the angel out of their own volition.

                “No, Dad,” Dean said, shaking his head. “The only monster here is you.”

                John had no words. Dean took Sam by the elbow and led him away; it was an awkward sight, seeing Sam have to hunch over to keep up with Dean’s pace.

                John stood and watched until Sam and Dean were out of sight, hidden beyond the tree line. John leaned back against the front bumper of the Impala. The metal pressed uncomfortably into his skin. The jug of holy oil was heavy in his hands.

                What was the point? In any of this? Even if Sam and Dean could defeat Naomi, he didn’t want to continue this way. He didn’t want to fight with his sons. And he couldn’t live a life where they hated him, a life where they refused to speak to him. Not even Alastair could create something more torturous than this.

                John checked his watch. Less than an hour left.

                He swallowed. He looked to the line of trees where his sons had vanished behind. He couldn’t see them. He wondered if they could see him.

                His boys didn’t need to see him die again.

 The jug of holy oil fell out of his hands onto the ground, smashing and leaking over the grass slowly. John shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and began to walk the opposite direction his sons had gone, towards the trees on the other side of the property.

                He had woken in up a strange woods. It only made sense he die in one.

                He thought of the many woods he’d been, the ones he’d taken Dean and Sam into, to fight a vampire, or search for a wendigo, or of the many safe houses they’d borrowed from friends of Bobby’s, located safely in a wooded area, far away from anyone who didn’t know better.

                He walked until he could only see trees behind him, the sight of the Impala far away. He wondered if Sam and Dean would notice his absence. He wondered if they would mourn his death.

                _No,_ John thought bitterly. _They have their frigging angel to look out for. To fret over. Can’t waste any of it for me._

                He looked up to the sky, but it was hidden behind the trick tree tops, just enough starlight pushing through the prevent John from walking in pitch darkness.

                He walked forward. He stopped looking behind him. There was nothing back there for him anyway. Not anymore.


	37. John

CH 35

                After having known for Castiel years now, there were some things that Dean just gradually became accustomed to. The curious head tilt, odd way he spoke sometimes, lack of any sort of social graces, and having Cas just randomly appear behind you with no warning.

                Dean thought he was getting better at not screaming like a little girl when Cas suddenly showed up out of thin air. There were warning signs, he learned—a distinct change in the wind direction, sometimes a thumping sound of landing footsteps; but ultimately, it was that Dean was so attuned with Cas now, that he could just feel Cas’s presence, same as he felt the breeze on his skin.

                “Cas,” Dean said, trying very hard not to roll his eyes. He turned around and could barely see Cas in the darkness; the thick trees absorbed a lot of sound, too, meaning Dean had to speak louder than normal to be heard. “What are you doing here?”

                “Is your father okay?” Cas said, searching.

                “He’s fine,” Dean snapped. “Don’t worry about him, answer my question. I told you to stay low until we got this angel bitch ganked.”

                “Dean’s right, for once,” Sam said. Dean did roll his eyes this time, though neither Sam nor Cas saw it and appreciated it. “Dad still hates your guts. Uh, no offense.”

                “Your thoughts are very loud,” Cas said. “Both of you. I was concerned.”

                Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. He didn’t want to burden Cas with his family shit any more than he already had; Cas had suffered enough already due to John, and now he had to deal with Dean’s uncontrollable thoughts.

                “Sorry,” Dean said.

                “You don’t have to apologize,” Cas said. “Either of you. He’s your father. You have every right to be worried for his safety.”

                “It’ll be fine, Cas,” Sam said. “We’re watching out for the angel Naomi, and once she shows up, we’ll kill her, and that’ll be that. We just want to make sure Dad is okay.”

                Cas’s brows furrowed deeply. “Where is your father?”

                Dean gestured back behind him. “By Baby.”

                “No he’s not,” Cas said.

                “Uh, yes he is,” Dean said.

                “No,” Cas said lowly. “I looked there first. There wasn’t anyone by your car.”

                Dean looked at Sam. He wondered if his eyes were as lit with panic as Sam’s.

                Dean didn’t think. He turned and ran, busting through the trees and tall grass, straight out back into the open field of Magnus’s front lawn. He got halfway across when he saw Baby all alone, the jug of holy oil cracked on the ground.

                Dean rubbed his mouth with his hand, suddenly feeling like he was going to be sick. Shit.

                “Dad?” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Dad, where are you?”

                Shit, okay, he and Dad were fighting, but he didn’t want his dad _dead._

                Cas appeared behind Dean and he brought Sam along; Sam landed less gracefully than Cas did, pitching forward, but Cas caught Sam by the shoulder.

                “Really?” Dean said. “You really couldn’t walk twenty fucking feet?” It was an odd thing to focus on, but he needed something to focus on, something he could do something about. Dad wasn’t here, but Cas was. Ergo, Cas got yelled at.

                It wasn’t fair, and Dean knew it was a problem of his. But now was not the time to focus on his own self-improvement.

                “Dean,” Sam said, his voice high and in _that tone_ ; the same one people used to get scared dogs to come to them. “Don’t take this out on Cas. If you had kept running, we couldn’t have caught up to you on foot.”

                Dean buried his face in his hands. He looked forlornly at his watch, at the second hand that kept tick, tick, ticking away—a literal life countdown on John’s life. Less than ten minutes, now.

                Tears burned at Dean’s eyes. His dad was going to die _again._ And there was nothing Dean could do about it. _Again._ His knees buckled underneath him. His own weight was too much suddenly. Dean fell less than gracefully to the ground, the oil still wet on the ground and moving to Dean’s jeans.

                “Dean,” Cas said. Cas was quiet for a moment, and Dean’s emotions were a whirlwind in his head, preventing him from speaking. His throat felt full of cotton, almost like he was suffocating on air.

                Dean shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care. Dad was…a bastard.

                But…he was still the hero of Dean’s life, and he was still their dad, and even if John made mistakes, he was a hero in his own right, and Dean could still remember life before the fire, before his life went to shit. Dad grilling on Sunday evenings, watching football together, watching John work on the Impala…

                He was pissed at John, but he didn’t hate John. Dean didn’t want him dead.

                Cas sighed sadly.

                “Wait here,” Cas said.

                Dean looked up from the ground to meet Cas’s eyes. Cas had that determined glint in his eyes, the bull-headed stubborn one, that Dean learned meant Cas couldn’t be talked out of whatever asinine thing he had conjured up in his mind.

                “I’ll find your father,” Cas said.

                “No,” Dean snapped too quickly for his own comfort. He didn’t hate John, but he still didn’t want Cas anywhere near him. And besides…

                “Cas, no,” Sam said. “There’s an angel after dad. It’s not a good idea for you to be near them, they’ll kill you too!”

                Dean was grateful Sam was calm under pressure. He could always depend on Sam to the smart one in a crisis; Cas was just as bad as Dean was, willing to throw himself under flaming bus.

                “I’ll be fine,” Cas snapped. “It wouldn’t be the first angel I’ve killed, at any rate,” he added, a little calmer, a little sadder.

                Dean’s throat tightened further.

                “Don’t go,” Dean forced out, because it was too easy to imagine. It had happened before. Cas, dying. Maybe forever, this time.

                “He’s your father,” Cas said simply. “I’ll be back.”

                And then Cas was gone, and Dean threw himself into the empty space Cas used to be, screams tearing at Dean’s throat.

                “No!” He yelled into the ground. “Castiel, you get your feathery ass back here! You hear me?”

                Dean waited for the distinct sound of flapping wings, but they never came; just his and Sam’s breathing filled the hot, night air.

                Dean swallowed. “You better come back to me,” he whispered, too low for Sam to hear. “If it’s you or him, it better be you.”

\----

 

John felt Naomi’s presence behind him before he saw Naomi. He stopped in his tracks, rooted to the ground. His breath rattled in his ribcage. The night time air burned at his skin.

                John was alone and defenseless against a creature he couldn’t fight. He had none of the things he had against Castiel—no Colt, or holy oil. He struggled to remember the spell he used to knock Castiel unconscious. He couldn’t pull the syllables out of his brain and out in the air.

                Naomi was still behind him. Naomi’s presence was heavy and loud, a weight pushing down on John’s shoulders, trying to shove him into the dirt.

                John clenched his teeth. He turned around.

                “We had a deal, John,” Naomi said. Its tone was flat and clipped—robotics, non-human-- and it in no way matched the icy expression that plagued its face. Pinched eyebrows, mouth turned in disgust—Naomi looked like just the sight of John nauseated it. “You were supposed to kill Castiel. And well,” Naomi looked around, eyes sweeping the empty space around them before they settled back onto John. “It doesn’t look like he’s dead.”

                John stepped back. Claustrophobia weighed down on his chest, the chilly night air making the hair on his arms and neck stand up straight. “That was the plan,” John said, working hard to make sure his voice didn’t betray him. Naomi didn’t scare him. Naomi _didn’t_ scare him. He didn’t know Naomi. “But, uh, like with most plans, obstacles come in the way.”

                “Obstacles,” Naomi said, slowly, like it was trying to taste the word.

                “Castiel is not an easy thing to subdue.”

                “No, he certainly is not.” Naomi’s lips pursed. “But you managed to subdue him once, did you not?” Naomi stepped forward, and John stepped back, twigs snapping underneath his boots. He never took his eyes off the angel stalking towards him, couldn’t.

                He thought he felt hellfire licking at his fingertips. Hooks sinking through muscle, into marrow, pulling him apart—

                “Some tricks only work once,” John said.

                “Most tricks only work once,” Naomi corrected. “Like, bringing a man back to life to complete what should be a simple, easy mission!”

                “If it’s so easy, why don’t you kill Castiel yourself?”

                “Castiel’s crimes are against Heaven. It would be due justice that Heaven punishes him, but,” Naomi smiled wickedly, showing perfectly white teeth. Sadistic malice burned deep in Naomi’s eyes. “It wouldn’t—oh, what is it you humans say?—pack the same punch, as being punished by the very thing Castiel holds most dear.”

                “Yeah?” John said. “What would that be?”

                “Humanity,” Naomi said, and its face turned like it had a bad taste still lingering in its mouth.

                “Humanity?” John repeated.

                “Castiel has a bit of a…fascination, with your lot. Like a cat who befriends mice.”

                “I don’t understand,” John said. It made sense for his sons to defend Castiel; even for the demon Crowley, to some degree. But why would an angel be angry with Castiel? Castiel was just the same as Naomi: a creature that wanted nothing but power. Willingly to do whatever it had to get it: lie, and manipulate. But…Naomi was saying the same things Sam and Dean said about Castiel; and Naomi was saying it like it was a bad thing, unlike Sam and Dean who always spoke highly of their angel friend.

                “Castiel’s broken,” Naomi said impatiently, like it were explaining to a child. “He’s never functioned properly. Always been a defect.”

                John frowned in confusion. Nothing Naomi said was making any sense. Castiel broken? Defective? How could an angel be defective? John had seen what Castiel could do first hand. He remembered Dean, or Castiel saying something about it—that Castiel’s “grace” wasn’t as strong as it used to be; that if Castiel over exerted itself, it  needed to rest. Like recharging batteries. Was that how Castiel was defective?

                John needed more answers. Things were only getting more confusing. “How so?” he asked.

                Naomi’s eyebrows tightened further. “You’re stalling,” Naomi said, head shaking. “Now, are you going to honor your deal, or not?”

                John’s back was pressed against a tree. The bark dug through the fabric of his shirt and bit into his skin. He thought of his boys, and of Mary; he failed them again. Naomi stepped forward. A blade identical to the one Castiel carried fell into Naomi’s wrist from the shirt sleeve, the blade parallel to Naomi’s arm.

                John stared at the sharp end of the blade, preparing for the moment when it would pierce through his flesh. He closed his eyes shut tightly. He had made peace with his death. He had prepared for this, knew it was going to happen, accepted it. If he just stayed still, it would all be over soon.

                …

                …

                No.

                No.

                He wasn’t going to just stand by and die like a coward. He was a Winchester. Winchesters didn’t give up.

                Especially not to sniveling, evil sons of bitches like angels.

                John didn’t think it through. He just acted. He rushed from his spot against the tree, barreling towards Naomi. He hit Naomi right in the middle, and it felt like he’d run into a brick wall. It was a solid mass, and did not yield to John’s momentum. And it doesn’t make sense because he’s taller than Naomi, more muscular; simply based on first impressions alone, people would bet all their money on him.

                He face hurt from where he collided with Naomi, a throbbing ache running up his jaw towards his temples.

                He felt the tip of the blade pressed against his gut and he drops to the ground. Naomi looked down on him disapprovingly. John felt like a child being scolded, only instead of running from a spanking, he was running from getting murdered.

                In one solid motion, John shoved himself back onto his feet and began to ran as fast as his feet would take him.

                He didn’t make it far. A force grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him sideways. He collided back with the ground. Dirt filled his mouth. John spat it out, distantly tasting blood in the back of his throat.

                Another force grabbed him, flipping him onto his back. John was pinned down. John’s airway tightened. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move anything, not even his pinky finger, nor his eyes. Naomi stalked towards him. It looked exceptionally bored, like this was nothing new; like it was something done every day. Naomi raised the blade high in the air. It was all John could look at, literally unable to move his eyes anywhere else.

                John prepared for the killing blow, prepared for the agony of his heart to stop beating, and for the hooks to sink into his flesh and bones. But he didn’t close his eyes. He wouldn’t die a coward, not again—he would face death head on, like a solider.

                _I don’t want to die like this,_ he thought.

                Naomi’s pinched frown bore down on him. The starlight shone off the dagger Naomi held, and it came down, rushing towards John—

                A knife plunged through Naomi’s chest. Naomi jerked, mouth opening slightly, but no noise escaped. Blood swelled through the navy pantsuit. Naomi looked down at the wound distantly, like it was very far away.

                The knife was pulled out and then reappeared through Naomi’s throat.

                “Shut your eyes!” a voice yelled.

                John stared at Naomi; a yellow light filled the eyes and mouth, so bright John clamped his eyes shut. There was a loud thud, and a rush of wind and then it was over.

 John opened his eyes.

                Castiel stood above him, panting. Castiel’s hair was disarray. Tacky blood marred the skin underneath his nose. In Castiel’s hand, was a bloodied dagger.

                Castiel swallowed, and the dagger vanished up his sleeve. He bent over, extending his hand.

                John stared at it, as though it were a snake. He looked to his side, where Naomi lay, eyes open, but lifeless and staring at the sky. Without that malicious glare, John could mistake Naomi for human a woman. Underneath her, the grass had been burned black into the shape of large, extending wings. John could make out individual feathers, see the curves of the bones.

                And Castiel’s hand was still in front of him, waiting patiently. John felt like the air had been punched out of him. His mind was in shock, and he couldn’t process rational thought.

                 John reached out and took it. Warmth pulsed through him, like coming into a heated house on a cold winter day. The aches that had settled in John’s bones vanished. He felt better than he had in years.

                Castiel pulled him to his feet.

                “Are you okay?” Castiel asked.

                John’s mouth was dry. He could only nod, lost for words. He stared back down at Naomi. She didn’t look so frightening anymore, without that permanent glare in her eyes. They looked like marbles.

                “I don’t understand,” John said eventually once his mind had managed to slow down just enough, peeling his eyes away from the rotting corpse. “You saved me. Why?”

                _Defective,_ Naomi had said. _Castiel’s broken._

                “You’re not a bad man, John Winchester. You don’t deserve to die.”

                “But why would _you_ save me?”

                Castiel shrugged. It was such an odd, innocent, _human_ gesture—nothing like the alien-esque way Castiel usually held himself; nothing like the way Naomi stood and walked and gestured.

                “Sam and Dean are my family. You’re their family. Does that not make us each other’s family?”

                “I’ve hurt you,” John said before he could stop himself.

                Castiel huffed and smiled slightly; it was a crooked little thing, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. But there was an innocence underneath it, something childlike and pure.

                “I believe that’s a requirement of being family.”

                John couldn’t believe this was real. This couldn’t be real. He was still alive, and not in Hell, and he was having a civil conversation with Castiel and—

                And he’d been wrong.

                He’d been so, horribly, terribly wrong.

                How could the world be so differently so suddenly? All at once, everything he thought he knew about Castiel seemed absurd. Looking at Castiel now, comparing it to Naomi…how could he have ever thought Castiel was evil?

                “You really do care about my sons, don’t you?”

                “More than I’ve ever cared about anything.”

                “And you and Dean…?”

                Castiel blushed, and looked to something nondescript on the ground. “Uh,” he began, but John cut him off.

                “I don’t need the details,” John said. “I just…I can’t believe it. You’re really an angel.”

                His boys really had their own guardian angel.

                “A poor example of one,” Castiel said.

                Looking back down at Naomi’s lifeless body, John finally understood. Dean and Sam had been right: Castiel really wasn’t anything like the other angels. Naomi had threatened and manipulated him from the very beginning, resorted to fear tactics to get her way.

                Castiel had been…kind from the very beginning. He had tried to befriend John, for Dean and Sam’s sake, and John brushed him off; he blinded himself to the obvious facts because he was afraid of being wrong.

                “Come,” Castiel said, angling his head back towards the road. “Dean and Sam are worried.”

                John stepped to stand besides Castiel, twigs snapping underneath his boots. “You can really hear prayers?”

                “Ones that are directed to me, yes. And general ones. Sam and Dean pray all the time.”

                “That’s…” John trailed off.

                “It’s kept me sane in many situations,” Castiel said. They began to walk back towards the main road, past the brush and trees. “I heard your prayers too.”

“I’ve never...” John trailed off. He wasn’t sure he had ever prayed, period. Not to God. Certainly not to Castiel.

“You did just now,” Castiel said. “Well, not to me specifically. But I heard it. You’re very loud.”

Suddenly John knew just what Castiel was talking about. He looked to Castiel, confused.

“Prayers are like a sense of longing,” Castiel continued. “I can follow them and find the source.”

“That’s…helpful,” John said.

“It’s been useful in many occasions.”

They walked silently for only a few steps.

“Your sons are the best men I’ve ever known,” Castiel said.

                John’s throat tightened. Castiel said it with such honesty, such pride. John’s muscles shook. “They’re okay,” he said, jokingly. That stare was so uncomfortable, and suddenly for a different reason than it used to be. Whereas before, it had been uncomfortable because it was something foreign, dark, malicious—now it was uncomfortable because it was the antithesis. It was pure and honest. John couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him that openly. Maybe not since Dean was still a child.

                Castiel huffed at the joke.

John smiled.

 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the way. Castiel led the way, ducking underneath tree branches, clearing a path for John to follow, past stones and roots.

When the forest finally ended, opening up into Magnus’s yard, they were met with the bright, shining white light of the full moon.

“Cas!” Dean yelled.

John watched as Dean raced towards Castiel, throwing his arms around the angel’s neck and pulling him for a bone crushing hug.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel said, patting Dean’s shoulder. “I’m okay.”

Dean released Castiel and held the angel’s face in his hands. “Are you really okay, though? You’re not hurt anywhere?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean broke, releasing a choked breath. It was sudden when he pulled Castiel’s face towards his, crushing their lips together. John hung back on the line of trees, unsure of himself. He felt he was being intrusive on something private, but he couldn’t look away.

There was nothing sensual about the kiss they shared; it was soft, and gentle, and sweet, but John could tell it was also honest. John swallowed. It all seemed so obvious now. He felt like such a fool that he hadn’t seen it earlier, hadn’t believed it sooner.

When they finally broke, Dean pressed his forehead against Castiel’s. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again.”

“Okay,” Castiel said. “Dean, you have to know—“

Dean shushed him. “It’s okay, Cas, I know. It wasn’t your fault, I’m just glad you’re okay—“

“Your father’s alive,” Castiel interrupted.

Dean pulled away, but moved a strong hand to Castiel’s shoulder. “What?” Dean’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Childlike, John thought.

Castiel turned his head. Dean followed Castiel’s gaze.

John stepped out of the shadows of the trees. The moonlight reflected off his skin. Dean looked between Castiel and John several times. John didn’t miss the way Dean’s hand tightened on Castiel’s shoulder, nor the way he shifted his feet just enough to put himself in front of Castiel.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel said. “Your father and I have come to an understanding.”

                Dean barked in nervous laughter, eyes still shifting between John and Castiel.

                “Really?” he said in disbelief, hands slapping the side of his thighs. He rubbed his mouth. “You guys…” Dean motioned between the two of them, then laughed again, the tension vibrating from his throat.

                John stepped forward, into the open field. He stood beside Castiel and straightened his spine. Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Castiel to turn on him and sink that fancy dagger of his into John’s gut; it was less than John deserved, after what he’d done to the angel, and subsequently to his boys.

                “Castiel saved me,” John said.

                Dean stared at John for a moment. He briefly glanced towards Castiel and sighed, the tension melting out of his shoulders and spine. “Yeah,” Dean said. “He does that.”

                John couldn’t take much more of that deep, brooding stare; it was worse than Castiel’s, because John knew that stare better, watched that stare grow and deepen for over twenty years.

                “Where’s Sam?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. There was much for them to talk about still, John knew; but he’d rather not repeat the story, rather not have to admit he was wrong more than he possibly had too.

                “He’ll be here,” Dean said, looking down the road. “I, uh, kind of ran out on him when you two decided to fly solo.”

                “Dean,” Castiel admonished.

                “Hey,” Dean raised his hands, palms forward. “He’s a big boy, he can deal with it for a little while. I mean, I couldn’t stand to be there a second longer, not knowing what the hell you two were up to, if you guys were okay…” Dean’s face darkened. He scratched the back of his head. “I actually…never thought both of you would be okay.”

                Dean had resigned to either John or Castiel dying. With a sly glance to Castiel, John knew which one Dean was hoping for. And though it hurt, it was not undeserved. John hadn’t been the father—or father-in-law—he should have been.

                Sam had been right from the very beginning. Maybe humanity wasn’t a species, but a condition. John had acted very monstrous towards Castiel, and his sons. And Castiel, a being of power, a storm in a bottle, with the power to kill and heal with a touch, acted in the way any human would.

                “I’m sorry, Dean” John forced out. He never imagined apologizing would be this hard. “For everything.” Because the list was too long to name each individual infraction: for ruining your childhood, for forcing you to grow up so fast, for putting so much responsibility on your shoulders, for never being there, for never being the father you deserved.

                “It’s fine, Dad—“

                “No, it’s not,” John snapped. He clenched his fist. He was a jerk even when he was trying not to be a jerk. John released a slow breath. “I can’t ever undo what I’ve done. Can’t right all my wrongs. But I’d like to try and change. Just let me say goodbye to Sam, please, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

                “You’re leaving?” Dean’s voice was strained and pitched.

                John frowned. “Isn’t that what you want?” Sam and Dean had made it pretty clear how they felt, who they picked. They had told him as much just a few hours ago, in the darkness of Magnus’s dungeon. And John had no right to assume himself back into their lives, pretend nearly ten years hadn’t separated them and that things could just reset to their definition of normal.

                “No,” Dean said hastily. “I never---I mean—you don’t have to go. Not if you and Cas…”

                “You don’t mean that,” John said.

                “Don’t tell me what I mean!” Dean said. “I was pissed at you, yeah, and I never wanted to see you again, but…that was in the heat of the moment kind of thing. You’re still my dad. And I want us—all of us—to work together.”

 


	38. Epilogue

CH 36: EPILOGUE

 

                Four people shoved into the Impala made for a cramped ride, but Dean wouldn’t ever complain. He wouldn’t trade it for anything to have the people he loved alive and well and with him, not even for extra elbow room, or a night’s sleep without someone’s obnoxious snoring

                Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he’d get something like this. He wasn’t used to getting good things; every time it looked like he was headed that way, life threw him a curve ball and Dean was left robbed and heartbroken.

                But this time…this time actually felt like it would stay good. He nudged Cas with his elbow and snorted at Cas’s annoyed sigh. But Cas still indulged Dean and wrapped his hand around Dean’s squeezing it gently.

                “This is unsafe driving,” Cas said.

                “Shut up,” Dean said.

                In the backseat, Sam sat with his legs bent at an awkward ankle, pressed against the backdoor. John was leaning against his own door, sleeping.

                It had been too easy, Dean thought, to fall into this routine. Some days, he wasn’t sure any of this was real, convinced it had to be an elaborate dream he would wake up from at any moment.

                But Cas’s hand beneath his own was too real; John’s snoring too loud. Dean didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t help it. This was all very real. This was his life.

                He smiled widely, happier than he could ever remember being. The four of them together made an unstoppable force that nothing could ever hope to defeat. Hunts were cakewalks, even facing down the bigger baddies, like demons and werewolf packs. And Cas had proved angels were nothing to worry anymore, either; and with four of them, they shouldn’t ever stand as a threat ever again.

                Dean revved the engine while Cas pulled up the GPS on his phone, the address for their latest hunt already logged in.

                He leaned over and kissed Cas gently on the cheek, still unbelieving he was allowed this. Dean still didn’t know what happened between Cas and John when they killed Naomi—that was between the two of them, Dean decided, and he wouldn’t press for details they didn’t want to share. But Dean was so unbelievably happy he was allowed this, and his father.

                He finally got to have everything he ever wanted, and for once, he wasn’t afraid of losing it.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks! ^.^ Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this little fic of mine!


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